GRAY    DAYS   AND   GOLD 


■:^^y^°- 


I 


GRAY    DAYS   AND 
GOLD 


IN  ENGLAND  AND   SCOTLAND 


BY 


WILLIAM    WINTER 


JA5Ja3HTAO    >!510Y 


J 


Neic  Iforh 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Ltd. 
1896 

.■iit  ritihts  reserved 


YORK    CATHEDRAL 


GRAY   DAYS   AND 
GOLD 


IN  ENGLAND  AND   SCOTLAND 


BY 


WILLIAM    WINTER 


New  Edition,  Revised,  with  Illustrations 


Weto  Hork 
THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  LTD. 
1896 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1892, 
By  MACMILLAN   AND   CO. 


Illustrated  Edition, 

Copyright,  1896, 

THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped  June,  1892.  Reprinted  November, 
1892;  January,  June,  August,  1893;  April,  1894. 

Illustrated  edition,  revised  throughout,  in  crown  8vo,  set  up 
and  electrotyped  June,  1896. 


NotiDooli  ^prcsB 

J.  S.  Cushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith 
Norwood  Mass.  U.S.A. 


SANTA    BAfiBABA 


TO 

^ugustin  Dalu 

REMEMBERING   A   FRIENDSHIP 

OF   MANY   YEARS 

I   DEDICATE   THIS   BOOK 


"  Es/  aiiiinus  tibi 
Renmiqiie  pnidens,  et  secitiidis 
Teinporibiis  diibiisque  rectus '"  ^ 


1  "  III  thy  mind  thou  coujoincU  life's  practical  knoivledge. 
And  a  temper  unmoved  by  the  changes  of  Joriune, 
Whatsoever  her  smile  or  her  frown. 
Neither  boived  nor  elate,  —  but  erect  " 

LORD  LYTTON's  TRANSLATION 


PREFACE  TO  THE  ILLUSTRATED  EDITION 
OF   GRAY    DAYS   AND   GOLD 


This  book,  containing  description  of  my  Gray  Days  in 
England  and  Scotland,  has,  in  a  miniature  form,  passed 
through  several  editions,  and  it  has  been  received  by  the 
public  ivith  exceptional  sympathy  and  abundant  practical 
favour.  Its  publishers  are,  therefore,  encouraged  to  p7'e- 
sent  it  in  a  more  opulent  style,  and  with  the  embellish- 
ment of  pictorial  illustrations.  Its  success,  —  and  indeed 
the  success  ivhich  has  attended  all  my  books,  —  is  deeply 
gratifying  to  me,  the  more  so  that  I  did  not  expect  it. 
My  sketches  of  travel  zvere  the  unpremeditated  creations 
of  genial  impulse,  and  I  did  not  suppose  that  they  would 
endure  beyond  the  hour.  If  I  had  anticipated  the  remark- 
ably cordial  approbation  ivhich  has  been  accorded  to  my 
humble  studies  of  British  scoiery  and  life,  I  should  have 
tried  to  make  them  better,  and,  especially,  I  should  have 
taken  scrupulous  care  to  verify  every  date  and  every  his- 
toric statement  set  forth  in  my  text.  That  precaution,  at 
first,  I  did  not  invariably  take,  but  as  my  mood  zvas  that 
of  contemplation  and  reverie,  so  my  method  %vas  that  of  the 
dreamer,  who  drifts  carelessly  from  one  beautiful  thing  to 

9 


10  PREFACE  TO   ILLUSTRATED  EDITION 

another,  tittering  simply  zvhatever  comes  into  his  thoughts. 
In  preparing  the  text  for  this  edition  of  Gray  Days,  how- 
ever, and  also  in  preparing  the  text  of  Shakespeare's 
England /t?r  the  pictorial  edition,  I  have  carefully  revised 
my  sketches,  and  have  made  a  studious  and  conscientious 
endeavour  to  correct  every  mistake  ajid  to  re^nove  every 
defect.  The  chapters  on  Clopton  and  Devizes  have  been 
considerably  augmented,  and  the  record  of  Shakespearean 
affairs  at  Stratford-upon-Avon  has  been  continued  to  the 
present  time.  A  heedless  error  in  my  chapter  on  Wor- 
cester, respecting  the  Shakespeare  marriage  bond,  has  been 
rectified,  and  in  various  ivays  the  narrative  has  been 
made  more  autJientic,  the  historical  embcllisJiment  more 
complete,  and,  perhaps,  the  style  more  flexible  and  more 
concise. 

Eight  of  the  papers  in  this  volume  relate  to  Scotland. 
My  first  visit  to  that  romantic  country  was  made  in 
1888,  and  zvas  limited  to  the  lozvlands,  but  since  that 
time  I  have  had  the  privilege  of  making  several  highland 
rambles,  and,  in  particular,  of  passing  thoughtful  days  in 
the  lovely  island  of  lona,  —  one  of  the  most  interesting 
places  in  Europe,  —  and  those  readers  zuho  may  care  to 
keep  me  company  beyond  the  limits  of  this  zvork  will 
find  memorials  of  those  ivaiiderings  and  that  experience 
in    my    later   books,   called  Old    Shrines    and    Ivy   and 

Brown  Heath  and  Blue  Bells. 

W.    W. 

July  15,  1896. 


PREFACE 


This  book,  a  companion  to  Shakespeare's  England, 
relates  to  the  i^ray  days  of  an  American  zvanderer  in  the 
British  islands,  and  to  the  gold  of  tJionglit  and  fancy 
that  can  be  found  there.  In  Shakespeare's  England 
a)i  attempt  was  made  to  depict,  in  an  unconventional 
manner,  those  lovely  scenes  that  are  intertzvined  with  the 
name  and  the  memory  of  SJiakespeare,  and  also  to  reflect 
the  spirit  of  that  English  scenery  in  general  ivhicJi,  to  an 
imaginative  mind,  must  alzvays  be  venerable  with  historic 
antiquity  and  tenderly  hallozved  zvith  poetic  and  romantic 
association.  The  present  book  continues  the  same  treat- 
ment of  kindred  themes,  referring  not  only  to  the  land 
of  Shakespeare,  but  to  the  land  of  Burns  and  Scott. 

After  so  much  had  been  done,  and  superbly  done,  by 

Washington  Irving  and  by  other  authors,  to  celebrate  the 

beauties  of  our  ancestral  home,  it  zvas  perhaps  an  act  of 

presumption  on  the  part  of  the  present  zuriter  to  touch 


II 


1 2  PREFACE 

those  subjects.  He  can  only  plead,  in  extenuation  of  his 
boldness,  an  irresistible  impulse  of  reverence  and  affection 
for  them.  His  presentment  of  them  can  give  no  offence, 
and  perhaps  it  may  be  found  sufficiently  sympathetic  and 
diversified  to  awaken  and  sustain  at  least  a  niomentary 
interest  in  the  minds  of  those  readers  ivho  love  to  muse 
and  dream  over  the  relics  of  a  storied  past.  If  by  happy 
fortune  it  should  do  more  than  that,  —  if  it  should  help 
to  impress  his  countrymen,  so  many  of  zvJiom  annually 
travel  in  Great  Bjitain,  witli  the  superlative  importance 
of  adorning  the  physical  aspect  and  of  refi}iing  the  mate- 
rial civilisation  of  America  by  a  reproduction  zvithiji  its 
borders  of  zvhatever  is  valuable  in  the  long  experience 
and  ivhatever  is  noble  and  beautiful  iii  the  domestic  and 
religious  spirit  of  the  British  islands,  —  his  labour  zvill 
not  have  been  in  vain.  The  supreme  need  of  this  age  in 
America  is  a  practical  conviction  that  progress  does  not 
consist  in  material  prosperity  but  in  spiritual  advance- 
viejtt.  Utility  has  long  been  exclusively  zvorsJiipped. 
The  welfare  of  the  future  lies  in  the  zuorsJiip  of  beauty. 
To  that  worship  these  pages  are  devoted,  zvitJi  all  that  it 
implies  of  sympathy  zvith  the  higher  instincts  and  faith 
in  the  divine  destiny  of  the  huma7i  race. 

Many  of  the  sketches  here  assembled  zvere  originally 
printed  in  the  Nezv  York  Tribune,  zvith  zvhicJi  journal 
their  author  has  been  continuously  associated,  as  dramatic 
reviewer  and  as  an  editorial  contributor,  since  August, 
1865.      They  have  been  revised  for  publication   in   this 


PREFACE  1 3 

form.  Part  of  the  paper  on  Sir  Walter  Scott  first 
appeared  171  Harper  s  Weekly,  for  which  periodical  the 
author  has  occasionally  writtcji.  The  paper  on  the 
Wordszvorth  country  zuas  contributed  to  the  New  York 
Mirror.  The  alluring  field  of  Scottish  antiquity  and 
romance,  zvhich  the  author  has  ventured  but  slightly  to 
toucJi,  may  perhaps  be  explored  hereafter,  for  treasures 
of  contemplation  that  earlier  seekers  have  left  ungathercd. 
[  Tliis  implied pro7nise  has  since  been  fulfilled,  in  Brown 
Heath  and  Blue  Bells,  1895.] 

The  fact  is  recorded  that  an  important  recent  book, 
1890,  called  Shakespeare's  True  Life,  written  by  James 
Walter,  incorporates  into  its  text,  luithout  credit,  several 
passages  of  original  description  and  reflection  taken  from 
the  present  writer  s  sketches  of  the  Sliakespeai'e  country, 
published  in  Shakespeare's  England,  and  also  quotes,  as 
his  work,  an  elaborate  narrative  of  a  jioctunial  visit  to 
Anne  Hathaivay  s  cottage,  zvhich  he  never  wrote  and 
never  claimed  to  have  written.  This  statement  is  made 
as  a  safeguard  against  future  injtistice. 

W.    W. 

1892. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Preface  to  Illustrated  Edition 9 

Preface  to  First  Edition 11 

CHAPTER   I 

Classic  Shrines  of  England 25 

CHAPTER   II 

Haunted  Glens  and  Houses        .        . ' 36 

CHAPTER    III 
Old  York 53 

CHAPTER   IV 
The  Haunts  of  Moore 66 

CHAPTER   V 
The  Beautiful  City  of  Bath 84 

CHAPTER  VI 
The  Land  of  Wordsworth 94 

CHAPTER   VII 

Shakespeare  Relics  at  Worcester      .        .        .        .        .        .112 

15 


I 6  CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   VIII 

PAGE 

Byron  and  Hucknall-Torkard  Church 122 


CHAPTER   IX 
Historic  Nooks  of  Warwickshire 141 

CHAPTER   X 
Shakespeare's  Town 150 

CHAPTER   XI 
Up  and  Down  the  Avon 172 

CHAPTER   XII 
Rambles  in  Arden 181 

CHAPTER   XIII 
The  Stratford  Fountain 188 

CHAPTER    XIV 
Bosworth  Field 198 

CHAPTER  XV 
The  Home  of  Dr.  Johnson 209 

CHAPTER    XVI 
From  London  to  Edinburgh 223 

CHAPTER   XVII 
Into  the  Highlands 230 


CONTENTS  17 

CHATTER   XVIII 

PAGE 

Highland  Beauties 238 

CHAPTER  XIX 
The  Heart  of  Scotland 248 

CHAPTER   XX 
Sir  Walter  Scott 265 

CHAPTER   XXI 
Elegiac  Memorials  in  Edinburgh 287 

CHAPTER   XXII 
Scottish  Pictures 297 

CHAPTER    XXIII 
Imperial  Ruins 3°5 

CHAPTER   XXIV 
The  Land  of  Marmion 314 


B 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


York  Cathedral   . 

Photogravure 

I'AGE 

Frontispiece 

Edinburgh  Castle 

Vignette 

Title-page 

Stoke-Pogis  Churchyard 

. 

.     26 

Gray's  Monument 

. 

.     28 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Gray 

. 

.     29 

All  Saints'  Church,  Laleliam 

. 

•     31 

Arnold's  Grave    . 

Photogravure 

face     33 

Portrait  of  Matthew  Arnold 

. 

■     34 

Hampton  Lucy    . 

•     37 

Old  Porch  of  Clopton  . 

•     39 

Clopton  House    . 

Photogravure 

face     44 

Warwick  Castle,  from  the  Mounc 

1 

. 

.     46 

Warwick  Castle,  from  the  River 

. 

.     48 

Leicester's  Hospital     . 

. 

•     51 

f'rom  the  Warwick  Shield  . 

'Pailpiece 

•     52 

Bootham  Bar       .         ... 

. 

•     54 

York  Cathedral  —  West  Front 

. 

•     57 

York  Cathedral  —  South  Side 

. 

.     60 

York  Cathedral  —  East  Front 

. 

.     62 

Portrait  of  Thomas  Moore   . 

. 

•     67 

The  Bear  —  Devizes    . 

•     70 

St.  John's  Church  —  Devizes 

• 

•     73 

Hungerford  Chapel  —  Devizes     . 

. 

•    75 

The  Avon  and  Bridge  —  Bath 

. 

•    85 

Portrait  of  Beau  Nash 

. 

.    86 

19 


20 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Tailpiece 
Phologravurc 


Bath  Abbey 

High  Street  —  Bath  . 

A  Fragment  from  an  Old  Roman  Bath 

Remains  of  the  Old  Roman  Bath 

Penrith  Castle    .... 

Ullswater  .  .  .         •  • 

Lyulph's  Tower  —  Ullswater 

Portrait  of  William  Wordsworth 

Approach  to  Ambleside      . 

Grasmere  Church 

Rydal  Mount  —  Wordsworth's  Seat 

An  Old  Lich  Gate     . 

Worcester  Cathedral,  from  the  Edgar  Tower 
The  Edgar  Tower 

r^trait  of  Lord  Byron 

Hucknall-Torkard  Church 

Hucknall-Torkard  Church 

Hucknall-Torkard  Church  —  Interior 

The  Red  Horse  Hotel 

The  Grammar  School,  Stratford 

Interior  of  the  Grammar  School 

Trinity  Church  .... 

The  Shakespeare  Memorial  Theatre 

An  Old  Stratford  Character :  Get)rge 

Anne  Hathaway's  Cottage 

The  Gower  Statue 

Tailpiece   .... 
Evesham   .... 
Clopton  Bridge 
Charlecote,  from  the  Terrace 
The  Abbey  Mills,  Tewkesbury 
Wootton-Wawen  Church   . 
Beaudesert  Cross 


Tailpiece 


r/ioiogravtire 


Robbing 


Photos'ravure 


Photoirravure 


face 


fac 


fac 


face 


PAGE 

88 

91 
92 

93 
94 
95 

lOI 

103 
104 
106 
108 
III 

113 
117 

123 

128 

131 

135 
142 

146 

147 
152 

154 

158 

165 
168 
171 
173 
174 
176 
179 

183 
186 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


21 


PAGE 

Tailpiece   ....'.. 

. 

187 

Portrait  of  Henry  Irving,  1888  . 

. 

191 

The  Stratford  Fountain 

Photogravure     . 

face 

193 

Mary  Arden's  Cottage 

. 

196 

Tailpiece   ...... 

. 

197 

Bosworth  Field           .... 

Photogravure     . 

face 

200 

Iligham-on-the-Hill  .... 

. 

207 

Tailpiece   ...... 

208 

Dr.  Johnson       ..... 

210 

Lichfield  Cathedral  —  West  Front      . 

. 

211 

Lichfield  Cathedral  — West  Front,  Cen 

tral  Doorway 

213 

House  ill  which  Johnson  was  born     . 

. 

217 

The  Spires  of  Lichfield 

. 

220 

Peterborough  Cathedral     . 

Photogravure     . 

face 

224 

Berwick  Castle  ..... 

228 

Stirling  Castle    ..... 

231 

Loch  Achray     ..... 

. 

234 

Loch  Katrine     ..... 

. 

235 

Tailpiece 

237 

Oban 

240 

Loch  Awe          ..... 

Photogravure     . 

face 

246 

Corbel  from  St.  Giles 

Tailpiece     . 

247 

The  Crown  of  St.  Giles's    . 

249 

Scott's  House  in  Edinburgh 

252 

The  Maiden 

. 

255 

Grayfriars  Church      .... 

256 

High  Street  —  Allan  Ramsay's  Shop 

257 

The  Canongate 

260 

Holyrood  Castle,  and  Arthur's  Seat    . 

Photogravure     . 

face 

262 

St.  Giles's,  from  the  Lawn  Market 

263 

Portrait  of  Sir  Walter  Scott 

. 

266 

Edinburgh  Castle       .... 

271 

The  Canongate  Tolbooth  . 

. 

277 

22  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Grayfriars  Churchyard        .........  292 

The  Forth  Bridge 298 

Dunfermline  Abbey  ..........  300 

Northwest  Corner  of  Dunfermline  Abbey  ......  303 

The  Nave  —  Looking  West  —  Dunfermline  Abbey    ....  304 

Loch  Lomond    ...........  306 

Loch  Lomond   ...........  308 

Dunstaffnage 312 

Tantallon  Castle         ..........  316 

Norham  Castle,  in  the  Time  of  Marmion   ......  321 


"  Whatever  ivithdraws  us  from  the  poiver  of  our  senses,  whatever 
makes  the  past,  the  distant,  or  the  future  predominate  over  the  pres- 
ent, advances  us  in  the  dignity  of  thinking  beings.  .  .  .  All  travel  has 
its  advantages.  If  the  passenger  visits  better  countries  he  may  learn 
to  improve  his  oivn,  and  if  fortune  carries  hi?n  to  70orse  he  may 
learn  to  enjoy  it." 

DR.  JOHNSON. 


"  There  is  given. 
Unto  the  things  of  earth  ivhich  time  hath  bent, 
A  spirit's  feeling;  and  where  he  hath  leant 
His  hand,  but  broke  his  scythe,  there  is  a  power 
And  magic  in  the  ruined  battlement. 
For  "which  the  palace  of  the  present  hour 
Must  yield  its  pomp,  and  wait  till  ages  are  its  do'wer." 

BYRON. 


"  The  charming,  friendly  English  landscape  I  Is  there  any  in 
the  world  like  it?  To  a  traveller  returning  home  it  looks  so  kind, 
—  //  seems  to  shake  hands  with  you  as  you  pass  through  it." 

THACKERAY. 


GRAY    DAYS   AND    GOLD 


CHAPTER    I 


CLASSIC    SHRINES    OF    ENGLAND 


1 

m 

ii^;^^ 

]ONDON,  June  29,  1888.— The  poet  Em- 
erson's injunction,  "Set  not  tliy  foot  on 
graves,"  is  wise  and  right ;  and  being  in 
merry  England  in  the  month  of  June  it 
certainly  is  your  own  fault  if  you  do  not 
fulfil  the  rest  of  the  philosophical  commandment  and 
"  Hear  what  wine  and  roses  say."  Yet  the  history  of 
England  is  largely  written  in  her  ancient  churches  and 
crumbling  ruins,  and  the  pilgrim  to  historic  and  literary 
shrines  in  this  country  will  find  it  difficult  to  avoid  set- 
ting his  foot  on  graves.  It  is  possible  here,  as  else- 
where, to  live  entirely  in  the  present ;  but  to  certain 
temperaments  and  in  certain  moods  the  temptation  is 
irresistible  to  live  mostly  in  the  past.  I  write  these 
words  in  a  house  which,  according  to  local  tradition, 
was  once  occupied  by  Nell  Gwynn,  and  as  I  glance  into 
the  garden  I  see  a  venerable  acacia  that  was  planted  by 
her  fair  hands,  in  the  far-off  time  of  the  Merry  Mon- 

25 


26 


GRAY  DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


arch.  Within  a  few  days  I  have  stood  in  the  dungeon 
of  Guy  Fawkes,  in  the  Tower,  and  sat  at  luncheon  in 
a  manor-house  of  Warwickshire  wherein  were  once  con- 
vened the  conspirators  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot.  The 
newspapers  of  this  morning  announce  that  a  monument 
will  be  dedicated  on  July  19  to  commemorate  the  defeat 


Stoke-Pogis  Churchyard. 


of  the  Spanish  Armada,  three  hundred  years  ago.  It  is 
not  unnatural  that  the  wanderer  should  live  in  the  past, 
and  often  should  find  himself  musing  over  its  legacies. 

One   of   the   most   sacred    spots  in  England   is   the 
churchyard  of  Stoke-Pogis.     I  revisited  that   place  on 


I  CLASSIC   SHRINES   OF   ENGLAND  2/ 

June  13  and  once  again  rambled  and  meditated  in 
that  hallowed  haunt.  Not  many  months  ago  it  seemed 
likely  that  Stoke  Park  would  pass  into  the  possession 
of  a  sporting  club,  and  be  turned  into  a  race-course 
and  kennel.  A  track  had  already  been  laid  there. 
Fate  was  kind,  however,  and  averted  the  final  dis- 
aster. Only  a  few  changes  are  to  be  noted  in  that 
part  of  the  park  which  to  the  reverent  pilgrim  must 
always  be  dear.  The  churchyard  has  been  extended 
in  front,  and  a  solid  wall  of  flint,  pierced  with  a  lych- 
gate,  richly  carved,  has  replaced  the  plain  fence,  with 
its  simple  turnstile,  that  formerly  enclosed  that  rural 
cemetery.  The  additional  land  was  given  by  the  new 
proprietor  of  Stoke  Park,  who  wished  that  his  tomb 
might  be  made  in  it ;  and  this  has  been  built,  beneath 
a  large  tree  not  far  from  the  entrance.  The  avenue 
from  the  gate  to  the  church  has  been  widened,  and  it 
is  now  fringed  with  thin  lines  of  twisted  stone ;  and 
where  once  stood  only  two  or  three  rose-trees  there 
are  now  sixty-two,  —  set  in  lines  on  cither  side  of  the 
path.  But  the  older  part  of  the  graveyard  remains 
unchanged.  The  yew-trees  cast  their  dense  shade,  as 
of  old.  The  quaint  porch  of  the  sacred  building  has 
not  suffered  under  the  hand  of  restoration.  The 
ancient  wooden  memorials  of  the  dead  continue  to 
moulder  above  their  ashes.  And  still  the  abundant 
ivy  gleams  and  trembles  in  the  sunshine  and  in  the 
summer  wind  that  plays  so  sweetly  over  the  spired 
tower  and  dusky  walls  of  this  lovely  temple  — 

"  All  green  and  wildly  fresh  without, 
but  worn  and  gray  beneath." 


2S 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHA1>. 


It  would  still  be  a  lovely  church,  even  if  it  were  not 
associated  with  the  immortal  Elegy.  I  stood  for  a  long 
time  beside  the  tomb  of  the  noble  and  tender  poet  and 
looked  with  deep  emotion  on  the  surrounding  scene  of 
pensive,  dream-like  beauty,  —  the  great  elms,  so  dense 
of  foliage,  so  stately  and  graceful ;  the  fields  of  deep, 
waving  grass,  golden  with  buttercups  and  white  with 
daisies ;  the  many  unmarked  mounds  ;  the  many  mould- 


Gray's  Alonument. 


ering  tombstones  ;  the  rooks  sailing  and  cawing  around 
the  tree-tops  ;  and  over  all  the  blue  sky  flecked  with 
floating  fleece.  Within  the  church  nothing  has  been 
changed.  The  memorial  window  to  Gray,  for  which 
contributions  have  been  taken  during  several  years, 
has  not  yet  been  placed.  As  I  cast  a  farewell  look 
at  Gray's  tomb,  on  turning  to  leave  the  churchyard,  it 
rejoiced  my  heart  to  see  that  two  American  girls,  who 


CLASSIC   SHRINES   OF   ENGLAND 


29 


had  then  just  come  in,  were  placing  fresh  flowers  over 
the  poet's  dust.     He  has  been  buried  more  than  a  hun- 
dred years,  —  but  his  memory  is  as  bright  and  green  as 
the  ivy  on  the  tower  within  whose  shadow  he  sleeps, 
and   as   fragrant  as  the  roses  that   bloom  at  its   base. 
Many  Americans  visit  Stoke-Pogis  churchyard,  and  no 
visitor  to  the  old  world,  who  knows  how  to  value  what 
is  best  in  its  treasures,  will  omit  that  act  of  reverence. 
The  journey  is  easy.     A  brief  run  by  railway  from  Pad- 
dington  takes  you  to  Slough,  which  is  near  to  Windsor, 
and   thence   it   is  a 
charming    drive,    or 
a  still  more   charm- 
ing   walk,    mostly 
through  green,   em- 
bowered    lanes,     to 
the  "ivy-mantled 
tower,"    the    "yew- 
trees'     shade,"     and 
the  simple  tomb  of 
Gray.     What  a  gap 
there   would    be    in 
the    poetry    of    our 
language     if    the 
Elegy  in  a  Country 
ChiLVcJiyard  were  ab- 
sent   from   it !      By 
that  sublime  and  tender  reverie  upon  the  most  impor- 
tant of  all  subjects  that  can  engage  the  attention  of  the 
human  mind  Thomas  Gray  became  one  of  the  chief  bene- 
factors of  his  race.     Those  lines  have  been  murmured  by 
the  lips  of  sorrowing  affection  beside  many  a  shrine  of 


30  GRAY  DAYS  AND   GOLD  chap. 

buried  love  and  hope,  in  many  a  churchyard,  all  round 
the  world.  The  sick  have  remembered  them  with  com- 
fort. The  great  soldier,  going  into  battle,  has  said  them 
for  his  solace  and  cheer.  The  dying  statesman,  closing 
his  weary  eyes  upon  this  empty  world,  has  spoken  them 
with  his  last  faltering  accents,  and  fallen  asleep  with 
their  heavenly  music  in  his  heart.  Well  may  we  pause 
and  ponder  at  the  grave  of  that  divine  poet!  Every 
noble  mind  is  made  nobler,  every  good  heart  is  made 
better,  for  the  experience  of  such  a  pilgrimage.  In 
such  places  as  these  pride  is  rebuked,  vanity  is  dis- 
pelled, and  the  revolt  of  the  passionate  human  heart  is 
humbled  into  meekness  and  submission. 

There  is  a  place  kindred  with  Stoke-Pogis  church- 
yard, a  place  destined  to  become,  after  a  few  years,  as 
famous  and  as  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  reverent  pilgrim 
in  the  footsteps  of  genius  and  pure  renown.  On  Sun- 
day afternoon,  June  17,  I  sat  for  a  long  time  beside  the 
grave  of  Matthew  Arnold.  It  is  in  a  little  churchyard 
at  Laleham,  in  Surrey,  where  he  was  born.  The  day 
was  chill,  sombre,  and,  except  for  an  occasional  low 
twitter  of  birds  and  the  melancholy  cawing  of  distant 
rooks,  soundless  and  sadly  calm.  So  dark  a  sky  might 
mean  November  rather  than  June ;  but  it  fitted  well 
with  the  scene  and  with  the  pensive  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings of  the  hour.  Laleham  is  a  village  on  the  south 
bank  of  the  Thames,  about  thirty  miles  from  London 
and  nearly  midway  between  Staines  and  Chertsey.  It 
consists  of  a  few  devious  lanes  and  a  cluster  o-f  houses, 
shaded  with  large  trees  and  everywhere  made  beautiful 
with  flowers,  and  it  is  one  of  those  fortunate  and  happy 
places  to  which  access  cannot  be  obtained  by  railway. 


CLASSIC   SHRINES   OF   ENGLAND 


31 


There  is  a  manor-house  in  the  centre  of  it,  secluded  in 
a  walled  garden,  fronting  the  square  immediately  op- 
posite to  the  village  church.  The  rest  of  the  houses 
are  mostly  cottages,  made  of  red  brick  and  roofed  with 
red  tiles.  Ivy  flourishes,  and  many  of  the  cottages  are 
overrun  with  climbing  roses.  Roman  relics  are  found 
in  the  neighbourhood,  —  a  camp  near  the  ford,  and  other 
indications    of    the    military    activity    of    Caesar.       The 


t-^^m 


.l^**'-^     nil     ^       -^    ' 


All  Saints    Church,  Laleham. 


church,  All  Saints',  is  of  great  antiquity.  It  has  been 
in  part  restored,  but  its  venerable  aspect  is  not  impaired. 
The  large  low  tower  is  of  brick,  and  this  and  the  church 
walls  are  thickly  covered  with  glistening  ivy.  A  double- 
peaked  roof  of  red  tiles,  sunken  here  and  there,  contrib- 
utes to  the  picturesque  beauty  of  this  building,  and  its 
charm  is  further  heightened  by  the  contiguity  of  trees, 


32  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap, 

in  which  the  old  church  seems  to  nestle.  Within  there 
are  low,  massive  pillars  and  plain,  symmetrical  arches, 
—  the  remains  of  Norman  architecture.  Great  rafters 
of  dark  oak  augment,  in  this  qu-aint  structure,  the  air  of 
solidity  and  of  an  age  at  once  venerable  and  romantic, 
while  a  bold,  spirited,  beautiful  painting  of  Christ  and 
Peter  upon  the  sea  imparts  to  it  an  additional  sentiment 
of  sanctity  and  solemn  jDomp.  That  remarkable  work 
is  by  George  Henry  Harlow,  and  it  is  placed  back  of 
the  altar,  where  once  there  would  have  been,  in  the 
Gothic  days,  a  stained  window.  The  explorer  does  not 
often  come  upon  such  a  gem  of  a  church,  even  in 
England, — so  rich  in  remains  of  the  old  Catholic  zeal 
and  devotion  ;  remains  now  mostly  converted  to  the  use 
of  Protestant  worship. 

The  churchyard  of  All  Saints'  is  worthy  of  the 
church,  —  a  little  enclosure,  irregular  in  shape,  surface, 
shrubbery,  and  tombstones,  bordered  on  two  sides  by 
the  village  square  and  on  one  by  a  farmyard,  and 
shaded  by  many  trees,  some  of  them  yews,  and  some  of 
great  size  and  age.  Almost  every  house  that  is  visible 
near  by  is  bowered  with  trees  and  adorned  with  flowers. 
No  person  was  anywhere  to  be  seen,  and  it  was  only 
after  inquiry  at  various  dwellings  that  the  sexton's  abode 
could  be  discovered  and  access  to  the  church  obtained. 
The  poet's  grave  is  not  within  the  church,  but  in  a 
secluded  spot  at  the  side  of  it,  a  little  removed  from  the 
highway,  and  screened  from  immediate  view  by  an 
ancient,  dusky  yew-tree.  I  readily  found  it,  perceiving 
a  large  wreath  of  roses  and  a  bunch  of  white  flowers 
that  were  lying  upon  it,  — recent  offerings  of  tender 
remembrance  and   sorrowing    love,  but   already  begin- 


1  '.;LASS1C   SifiUNES   oi-    ENGLAND 

mug  i'^  wither.     A  sma.!  sqi.iuic  m.   iiui,  iiualilicu  \n'i, 
V  'it     I,',  ■'-'      •  "  r>;  tho  vaulted  tomb  of  the  poet  and  oi 

(1.1     At  the  head  are  three  crosses  of 

-J  in  shape  and  equal  m  size,  except 

I'n  .  set  upon  a  pedestal  a  little  lower  tbnn 

.)thers.  On  the  first  cross  is  wri 
•  ilasil  Francis  Arnold,  youngest  child  of  Matthew  and 
Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  August  19,  1866.  Died 
January  4,  1868.  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
me."  On  the  second:  "Thomas  Arnold,  eldest  child 
ithew  and  Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  July  6, 
18-  ied  November  23,   1868.     Awake,  thou,  Lute 

ana  Harp!     I  will  awake  right  early."     On  the  third: 
"Trevenen  William  3%]!iHol(i,'a30«nJHftd  child  of   Matthew 


^  Sinoe  these  words  were  written 'a  plain  headstone  oi  'ad'.uz  ■ainic 
has  been  placed  on  this  spot,  bearing  the  following  inscriptior  :    - 

"Matthew  Arnold,  eldest  son  of  the  late  Thomas  Am'  -vl 

Master  of  Rugby  School.     Born  December  24,  18  ,,1888. 


1895,  contain  touching 
.iiiv  ,.      At  ilarruvv,  February  27,  1869,  the 

poet  vm;'l.         .!   i.>  .     .    ..:.-,.iu;ly  clear,  bright  day.  with  a  cold  wir^V  ■="  ^ 
went  to  a  field  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  whence  I  can  see  the  cluroj. 
!vvs  ri   :  ty  line  of  the  Thames,  where  Tommy  lies  at  the 

■■:  this  view  on  a  clear  day."     At  London 

,  ,    ,  vvfnrriay  Flu  and  1  went  together  to  L:. 

■.\v\  ;.\,!. .  'lan  driven  there  with  darling  Tommy  ami  tiv.: 

■'.i?r  two  boys,  '  ^he  drive,  ai  .0, 

•'  the   river,  ana  :cn,  and  often  talktu    v.   ir.vru 

•      r-^'ards.     And  no  ■'•avc  poor  darling.     The  l^-.u 

fa  are  a  perfect  gar-  sisjht  of  the  churchyard, 

w  ;.:re  there  is  nothing  else  J  n  trodden  over  the 

■■■'  them  by  people  •'-  -^I't,  mild  air,  and 

a  long  time  by  th-, 

c 


ARNOLD'S    GRAVE 


i 


I  CLASSIC   SHRINES   OF   ENGLAND  33 

ning  to  wither.  A  small  square  of  turf,  bordered  with 
white  marble,  covers  the  vaulted  tomb  of  the  poet  and  of 
three  of  his  children.^  At  the  head  are  three  crosses  of 
white  marble,  alike  in  shape  and  equal  in  size,  except 
that  the  first  is  set  upon  a  pedestal  a  little  lower  than 
those  of  the  others.  On  the  first  cross  is  written : 
"  Basil  Francis  Arnold,  youngest  child  of  Matthew  and 
Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  August  19,  1866.  Died 
January  4,  1868.  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
me."  On  the  second:  "Thomas  Arnold,  eldest  child 
of  Matthew  and  Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  July  6, 
1852.  Died  November  23,  1868.  Awake,  thou.  Lute 
and  Harp!  I  will  awake  right  early."  On  the  third: 
"  Trevenen  William  Arnold,  second  child  of   Matthew 


1  Since  these  words  were  written  a  plain  headstone  of  white  marljle 
has  been  placed  on  this  spot,  bearing  the  following  inscription :  — 

"Matthew  Arnold,  eldest  son  of  the  late  Thomas  Arnold,  D.D.,  Head 
Master  of  Rugby  School.  Born  December  24,  1822.  Died  April  15,  1S88. 
There  is  sprung  up  a  light  for  the  righteous,  and  joyful  gladness  for  such 
as  are  true-hearted." 

The  Letters  of  Matthew  Arnold,  published  in  1895,  contain  touching 
allusions  to  Laleham  Churchyard.  At  Harrow,  February  27,  1869,  the 
poet  wrote  :  "  It  is  a  wonderfully  clear,  bright  day,  with  a  cold  wind,  so  I 
went  to  a  field  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  whence  I  can  see  the  clump  of  Bot- 
leys  and  the  misty  line  of  the  Thames,  where  Tommy  lies  at  the  foot  of 
them.  I  often  go  for  this  view  on  a  clear  day."  At  London,  August  2, 
1869,  he  wrote  :  "  On  Saturday  Flu  and  I  went  together  to  Laleham.  It 
was  exactly  a  year  since  we  had  driven  there  with  darling  Tommy  and  the 
other  two  boys,  to  see  Basil's  grave  ;  he  enjoyed  the  drive,  and  Laleham, 
and  the  river,  and  Matt  Buckland's  garden,  and  often  talked  of  them 
afterwards.  And  now  we  went  to  see  Jiis  grave,  poor  darling.  The  two 
graves  are  a  perfect  garden,  and  are  evidently  the  sight  of  the  churchyard, 
where  there  is  nothing  else  like  them;  a  path  has  been  trodden  over  the 
grass  to  them  by  people  coming  and  going.  It  was  a  soft,  mild  air,  and 
we  sat  a  long  time  by  the  graves." 
C 


34 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


and  Frances  Lucy  Arnold.  Born  October  15,  1853. 
Died  February  16,  1872.  In  the  morning  it  is  green 
and  groweth  up."  Near  by  are  other  tombstones,  bear- 
ing the  name  of  Arnold,  —  the  dates  inscribed  on  them 
referring  to  about  the  beginning  of  this  century.  These 
mark  the  resting-place  of  some  of  the  poet's  kindred. 
His  father,  the  famous  Dr.  Arnold  of  Rugby,  rests  in 

Rugby  chapel,  —  that 
noble  father,  that  true 
friend  and  servant  of 
humanity,  of  whom  the 
son  wrote  those  words 
of  imperishable  nobility 
and  meaning,  "  Thou, 
my  father,  wouldst  not 
be  saved  alone."  Mat- 
thew Arnold  is  buried 
in  the  same  grave  with 
his  eldest  son  and  side 
N  by  side  with  his  little 
children.  He  who  was 
himself  as  a  little  child, 
in  his  innocence,  good- 
ness, and  truth, — where 
else  and  how  else  could  he  so  fitly  rest  ?  "  Awake,  thou, 
Lute  and  Harp  !     I  will  awake  right  early." 

Every  man  will  have  his  own  thoughts  in  such  a  place 
as  this ;  will  reflect  upon  his  own  afflictions,  and  from 
knowledge  of  the  manner  and  spirit  in  which  kindred 
griefs  have  been  borne  by  the  great  heart  of  intellect 
and  genius  will  seek  to  gather  strength  and  patience  to 
endure  them  well.     Matthew  Arnold  taught  many  les- 


Matthew  Arnold. 


I  CLASSIC   SHRINES  OF   ENGLAND  35 

sons  of  great  value  to  those  who  are  able  to  think.  He 
did  not  believe  that  happiness  is  the  destiny  of  the 
human  race  on  earth,  or  that  there  is  a  visible  ground 
for  assuming  that  happiness  in  this  mortal  condition  is 
one  of  the  inherent  rights  of  humanity.  He  did  not 
think  that  this  world  is  made  an  abode  of  delight  by  the 
mere  jocular  affirmation  that  everything  in  it  is  well  and 
lovely.  He  knew  better  than  that.  But  his  message, 
delivered  in  poetic  strains  that  will  endure  as  long  as 
our  language  exists,  is  the  message,  not  of  gloom  and 
despair,  but  of  spiritual  purity  and  sweet  and  gentle 
patience.  The  man  who  heeds  Matthew  Arnold's 
teaching  will  put  no  trust  in  creeds  and  superstitions, 
will  place  no  reliance  upon  the  transient  structures  of 
theology,  will  take  no  guidance  from  the  animal  and 
unthinking  multitude  ;  but  he  will  "  keep  the  whiteness 
of  his  soul "  ;  he  will  be  simple,  unselfish,  and  sweet ; 
he  will  live  for  the  spirit ;  and  in  that  spirit,  pure,  ten- 
der, fearless,  strong  to  bear  and  patient  to  suffer,  he 
will  find  composure  to  meet  the  inevitable  disasters  of 
life  and  the  awful  mystery  of  death.  Such  was  the 
burden  of  my  thought,  sitting  there,  in  the  gloaming, 
beside  the  lifeless  dust  of  him  whose  hand  had  once, 
with  kindly  greeting,  been  clasped  in  mine.  And  such 
will  be  the  thought  of  many  and  many  a  pilgrim  who 
will  stand  in  that  sacred  place,  on  many  a  summer  even- 
ing of  the  long  future  — 

"  While  the  stars  come  out  and  the  night  wind 
Brings,  up  the  stream, 
Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea." 


CHAPTER  II 

HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES 

ARWICK,  July  6,  1888. —  One  night, 
many  years  ago  ^  a  brutal  murder  was 
done,  at  a  lonely  place  on  the  high- 
road between  Charlecote  Park  and 
Stratford-upon-Avon.  The  next  morn- 
ing the  murdered  man  was  found  lying 
by  the  roadside,  his  mangled  head  resting  in  a  small 
hole.  The  assassins  were  shortly  afterward  discovered, 
and  they  were  hanged  at  Warwick.  From  that  day  to 
this  the  hole  wherein  the  dead  man's  head  reposed 
remains  unchanged.  No  matter  how  often  it  may  be 
filled,  whether  by  the  wash  of  heavy  rains  or  by  stones 
and  leaves  that  wayfarers  may  happen  to  cast  into  it  as 
they  pass,  it  is  soon  found  to  be  again  empty.  No  one 
takes  care  of  it.  No  one  knows  whether  or  by  whom 
it  is  guarded.     Fill  it  at  nightfall  and  you  will  find  it 


1  The  crime  was  committed  on  November  4,  1820.  The  victim  was  a 
farmer,  named  William  Hirons.  The  assassins,  four  in  number,  named 
Quiney,  Sidney,  Hawtrey,  and  Adams,  were  hanged,  at  Warwick,  in 
April,  1 82 1. 

36 


CHAP.  11 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES 


37 


empty  in  the  morning.  That  is  the  local  belief  and 
affirmation.  This  spot  is  two  miles  and  a  half  north  of 
Stratford  and  three-quarters  of  a  mile  from  the  gates  of 
Charlecote  Park.  I  looked  at  this  hole  one  bright  day 
in  June  and  saw  that  it  was  empty.  Nature,  it  is 
thought  by  the  poets,  abhors  complicity  with  the  con- 
cealment of  crime,  and  brands  with  her  curse  the  places 
that  are  linked  with  the  shedding  of  blood.  Hence  the 
strong  lines  in  Hood's  poem  of  Eugene  Aram: 

"  And  a  mighty  wind  had  swept  the  leaves, 
And  still  the  corse  was  bare." 


Hampton  Lucy. 


There  are  many  haunted  spots  in  Warwickshire. 
The  benighted  peasant  never  lingers  on  Ganerslie 
Heath,  —  for  there,  at  midnight,  dismal  bells  have  been 
heard  to  toll,  from  Blacklow  Hill,  the  place  where  Sir 
Piers  Gaveston,  the  corrupt,  handsome,  foreign  favour- 
ite of  King  Edward  the  Second,  was  beheaded,  by  order 
of  the  grim  barons  whom  he  had  insulted  and  opposed. 
The  Earl  of  Warwick  led  them,  whom  Gaveston  had 
called  the  Black  Dog  of  Arden.  This  was  long  ago. 
Everybody  knows  the  historic  incident,  but  no  one  can 
so  completely  realise  it  as  when  standing  on  the  place. 


38  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


The  scene  of  the  execution  is  marked  by  a  cross,  erected 
by  Mr.  Bertie  Greathead,  bearing  this  inscription  :  "  In 
the  hollow  of  this  rock  was  beheaded,  on  the  first  day 
of  July  1 3 12,  by  Barons  lawless  as  himself,  Piers  Gaves- 
ton,  Earl  of  Cornwall.  In  life  and  death  a  memorable 
instance  of  misrule."  [Hollinshed  says  that  the  execu- 
tion occurred  on  Tuesday,  June  20.]  No  doubt  the 
birds  were  singing  and  the  green  branches  of  the  trees 
were  waving  in  the  summer  wind,  on  that  fatal  day, 
just  as  they  are  at  this  moment.  Gaveston  was  a  man 
of  much  personal  beauty  and  some  talent,  and  only 
twenty-nine  years  old.  It  was  a  melancholy  sacrifice 
and  horrible  in  the  circumstances  that  attended  it.  No 
wonder  that  doleful  thoughts  and  blood-curdling  sounds 
should  come  to  such  as  walk  on  Ganerslie  Heath  in  the 
lonely  hours  of  the  night. 

Another  haunted  place  is  Clopton  —  haunted  certainly 
with  memories  if  not  with  ghosts.  In  the  reign  of  Henry 
the  Seventh  this  was  the  manor  of  Sir  Hugh  Clopton, 
Lord  Mayor  of  London,  in  1492,  he  who  built  the  bridge 
over  the  Avon,  —  across  which,  many  a  time,  William 
Shakespeare  must  have  ridden,  on  his  way  to  Oxford 
and  the  capital.  The  dust  of  Sir  Hugh  rests  in  Strat- 
ford church  and  his  mansion  has  passed  through  many 
hands.  In  our  time,  it  is  the  residence  of  Sir  Arthur 
Hodgson,^  by  whom  it  was  purchased  in  July,  1873.  It 
was  my  privilege  to  see  Clopton  under  the  guidance  of 
its  lord,  and  a  charming  and  impressive  old  house  it  is, 

1  Arthur  Hodgson,  born  in  i8i8,  was  educated  at  Eton  and  at  Cam- 
bridge. He  went  to  Australia  in  1839,  and  made  a  fortune  as  a  sheep- 
farmer.  He  served  the  State  in  various  public  offices,  and  was  knighted  by 
Queen  Victoria.     He  has  been  five  times  Mayor  of  Stratford-upon-Avon. 


II 


HAUNTED  GLENS  AND  HOUSES 


39 


—  full  of  quaint  objects  and  fraught  with  singular  asso- 
ciations. They  show  to  you  there,  among  many  inter- 
esting paintings,  the  portrait  of  a  lady,  with  thin  figure, 
delicate  features,  long  light  hair,  and  sensitive  counte- 
nance, said  to  be  that  of  Lady  Margaret  Clopton,  who,  in 
the  Stuart  time,  .  , 


drowned  herself, 
in  a  dismal  well, 
behind  the  man- 
sion,  — b  e  i  n  g 
crazed  with  grief 
at  the  death  of 
her  lover,  killed 
in  the  Civil  War. 
And  they  show 
to  you  the  por- 
trait of  still  an- 
other Clopton 
girl.  Lady  Char- 
1  o  1 1  e,  w  h  o  is 
thought  to  have 
been  accident- 
ally buried  alive, 
—  because  when 
it  chanced  that 
the  family  tomb 
was  opened,  a 
few  days  after 
her  interment,  the  corse  was  found  to  be  turned  over 
in  its  coffin  and  to  present  indications  that  the  wretched 
victim  of  premature  burial  had,  in  her  agonized  frenzy, 
gnawed    her  flesh.      Her   death  was  attributed  to  the 


Old  Porch  of  Clopton. 


40  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

plague,  and  it  occurred  on  the  eve  of  her  prospective 
marriage. 

It  is  the  blood-stained  corridor  of  Clopton,  however, 
that  most  impresses  imagination.  This  is  at  the  top  of 
the  house,  and  access  to  it  is  gained  by  a  winding  stair 
of  oak  boards,  uncarpeted,  solid,  simple,  and  consonant 
with  the  times  and  manners  that  it  represents.  Many- 
years  ago  a  squire  of  Clopton  murdered  his  butler,  in  a 
little  bedroom  near  the  top  of  that  staircase,  and  dragged 
the  body  along  the  corridor,  to  secrete  it.  A  thin  dark 
stain,  seemingly  a  streak  of  blood,  runs  from  the  door 
of  that  bedroom,  in  the  direction  of  the  stairhead,  and 
this  is  so  deeply  imprinted  in  the  wood  that  it  cannot  be 
removed.  Opening  from  this  corridor,  opposite  to  the 
room  of  the  murder,  is  an  angular  apartment,  which  in 
the  remote  days  of  Catholic  occupancy  was  used  as  an 
oratory.!  In  the  early  part  of  the  reign  of  Henry  the 
Sixth,  John  Carpenter  obtained  from  the  Bishop  of 
Worcester  permission  to  establish  a  chapel  at  Clopton. 
In  1885  the  walls  of  that  attic  chamber  were  committed 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  paper-hanger,  who  presently 
discovered  on  them  several  inscriptions,  in  black  letter, 
but  who  fortunately  mentioned  his  discoveries  before 
they  were  obliterated.  Richard  Savage,  the  antiquary, 
was  called  to  examine  them,  and  by  him  they  were  re- 
stored.    The  effect  of  those  little  patches  of  letters,  — 


1  An  entry  in  the  Diocesan  Register  of  Worcester  states  that  in  1374 
"John  Clopton  of  Stretforde  obtained  letters  dimissory  to  the  order  of 
priest."  —  In  1477  Pope  Sixtus  the  Fourth  authorized  John  Clopton  to 
perform  divine  service  in  Clopton  manor-house.  —  Mrs.  Gaskell,  then  Miss 
Byerley,  saw  the  attic  chapel  at  Clopton,  in  1820,  and  wrote  a  description 
of  it  at  that  time. 


II  HAUNTED   GLENS   AND    HOUSES  4 1 

isles  of  significance  in  a  barren  sea  of  wall-paper,  —  is 
that  of  extreme  singularity.  Most  of  them  are  sentences 
from  the  Bible.  All  of  them  are  devout.  One  imparts 
the  solemn  injunction:  "Whether  you  rise  yearlye  or 
goe  to  bed  late,  Remember  Christ  Jesus  who  died  for 
your  sake."  [This  may  be  found  in  John  Weever's 
Funeral  Monuments :  163 1.]  Clopton  has  a  long  and 
various  history.  One  of  the  most  significant  facts  in 
its  record  is  that,  for  about  three  months,  in  the  year 
1605,  it  was  occupied  by  Ambrose  Rokewood,  of  Cold- 
ham  Hall,  Suffolk,  a  breeder  of  race-horses,  whom 
Robert  Catesby  brought  into  the  ghastly  Gunpowder 
Plot,  which  so  startled  the  reign  of  James  the  First. 
Hither  came  Sir  Everard  Digby,  and  Thomas  and 
Robert  Winter,  and  the  specious  Jesuit,  Father  Garnet, 
chief  hatcher  of  the  conspiracy,  with  his  vile  train  of 
sentimental  fanatics,  on  that  pilgrimage  of  sanctification 
with  which  he  formally  prepared  for  an  act  of  such 
hideous  treachery  and  wholesale  murder  as  only  a  relig- 
ious zealot  could  ever  have  conceived.  That  may  have 
been  a  time  when  the  little  oratory  of  Clopton  was  in 
active  use.  Things  belonging  to  Rokewood,  who  was 
captured  at  Hewel  Grange,  and  was  executed  on  Janu- 
ary 31,  1606,  were  found  in  that  room,  and  were  seized 
by  the  government.  Mr.  Fisher  Tomes,  resident  pro- 
prietor of  Clopton  from  1825  to  1830,  well  remembered 
the  inscriptions  in  the  oratory,  which  in  his  time  were 
still  uncovered.  Not  many  years  since  it  was  a  bed- 
room ;  but  one  of  Sir  Arthur  Hodgson's  guests,  who 
undertook  to  sleep  in  it,  was,  it  is  said,  afterward  heard 
to  declare  that  he  wished  not  ever  again  to  experience 
the  hospitality  of  that  chamber,  because  the  sounds  that 


42  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  chap. 

he  had  heard,  all  around  the  place,  throughout  that  night, 
were  of  a  most  startling  description.  A  house  contain- 
ing many  rooms  and  staircases,  a  house  full  of  long 
corridors  and  winding  ways,  a  house  so  large  that  you 
may  get  lost  in  it,  —  such  is  Clopton  ;  and  it  stands  in 
its  own  large  park,  removed  from  other  buildings  and 
bowered  in  trees.  To  sit  in  the  great  hall  of  that  man- 
sion, on  a  winter  midnight,  when  the  snow-laden  wind 
is  howling  around  it,  and  then  to  think  of  the  bleak, 
sinister  oratory,  and  the  stealthy,  gliding  shapes  up- 
stairs, invisible  to  mortal  eye,  but  felt,  with  a  shudder- 
ing sense  of  some  unseen  presence  watching  in  the 
dark,  —  this  would  be  to  have  quite  a  sufficient  experi- 
ence of  a  haunted  house.  Sir  Arthur  Hodgson  talked 
of  the  legends  of  Clopton  with  that  merry  twinkle  of 
the  eye  which  suits  well  with  kindly  incredulity.  All 
the  same,  I  thought  of  Milton's  lines  — 

"  Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake  and  when  we  sleep." 

The  manor  of  Clopton  was  granted  to  John  de 
Clopton  by  Peter  de  Montfort,  in  1236,  while  Henry 
the  Third  was  king,  and  the  family  of  Clopton  dwelt 
there  for  more  than  five  hundred  years.  The  Cloptons 
of  Warwickshire  and  those  of  Suffolk  are  of  the  same 
family,  and  at  Long  Melford,  in  Suffolk,  may  be  found 
many  memorials  of  it.  The  famous  Sir  Hugh,  —  who 
built  New  Place  in  1490,  restored  the  Guild  chapel, 
glazed  the  chancel  of  Stratford  church,  reared  much  of 
Clopton  House,  where  he  was  visited  by  Henry  the 
Seventh,  and  placed  the  bridge  across  the  Avon  at 
Stratford,  where  it  still   stands,  —  died  in   London,  in 


11  HAUNTED   GLENS   AND   HOUSES 


43 


1496,    and    was   buried    at    St.    Margaret's,    Lothbury. 
Joyce,    or   Jocasa,    Clopton,    born    in    1558,    became    a 
lady-in-waiting  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  afterwards  to 
Queen  Anne,  wife  of  James  the  First,  and  ultimately 
married   George   Carew,   created    Earl    of    Totnes    and 
Baron  of  Clopton.     Carew,  born  in   1557,  was  the  son 
of  a  Dean  of  Exeter,  and  he  became  the  English  com- 
mander-in-chief  in   Ireland,  in  the  time  of    Elizabeth. 
King  James  ennobled  him,  with  the  title  of  Baron  Clop- 
ton, in   1605,  and  Charles  the  First  made  him  Earl  of 
Totnes,  in  1625.     The  Earl  and  his  Countess  are  buried 
in  Stratford  church,  where  their  marble  effigies,  recum- 
bent in  the  Clopton  pew,  are  among  the  finest  monu- 
ments of   that  hallowed  place.     The  Countess  died  in 
1636,   leaving    no    children,    and    the    Earl    thereupon 
caused  all  the  estates  that  he  had  acquired  by  marriage 
with   her  to  be    restored  to  the    Clopton    family.     Sir 
John  Clopton,  born  in   1638,  married  the  daughter  and 
co-heiress  of  Sir  Edward  Walker,  owner  of  Clopton  in 
the  time  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  it  is  interesting:  to 
remember  that  by  him  was  built  the  well-known  house 
at  Stratford,  formerly  called  the  Shoulder  of  Mutton, ^ 
but  more  recently  designated  the  Swan's  Nest.     Men- 
tion is  made  of  a  Sir  John  Clopton  by  whom  the  well 
in  which  Lady  Margaret  drowned  herself  was  enclosed ; 
it  is    still    called   Lady    Margaret's    Well ;    a   stone,  at 
the  back  of  it,  is  inscribed  "  S.  J.  C.  1686."     Sir  John 
died  in  1692,  leaving  a  son,  Sir  Hugh,  who  died  in  1751, 

1  The  original  sign  of  the  Shoulder  of  Mutton,  which  once  hung  before 
that  house,  was  painted  by  Grubb,  who  also  painted  the  remarkable  por- 
trait of  the  Corporation  Cook,  which  now  hangs  in  the  town  hall  of  Strat- 
ford, —  given  to  the  borough  by  the  late  Henry  Graves,  of  London. 


44  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

aged  eighty.  The  last  Clopton  in  the  direct  line  was 
Frances,  born  in  171 8,  who  married  Mr.  Parthenwicke, 
and  died  in  1792. 

Clopton  House  is  of  much  antiquity,  but  it  has  under- 
gone many  changes.  The  north  and  west  sides  of  the 
present  edifice  were  built  in  the  time  of  Henry  the 
Seventh.  The  building  was  originally  surrounded  with 
a  moat.^  A  part  of  the  original  structure  remains  at 
the  back,  —  a  porchway  entrance,  once  accessible  across 
the  moat,  and  an  oriel  window  at  the  right  of  that  en- 
trance. Over  the  front  window  are  displayed  the  arms 
of  Clopton,  —  an  eagle,  perched  upon  a  tun,  bearing 
a  shield ;  and  in  the  gable  appear  the  arms  of  Walker, 
with  the  motto,  Loyaute  mon  honneur.  Sir  Edward 
Walker  was  Lord  of  Clopton  soon  after  the  Restoration, 
and  by  him  the  entrance  to  the  house,  which  used  to 
be  where  the  dining-room  now  is,  was  transferred  to  its 
present  position.  It  was  Walker  who  carried  to  Charles 
the  Second,  in  Holland,  in  1649,  the  news  of  the  execu- 
tion of  his  father.  A  portrait  of  the  knight,  by  Dobson, 
hangs  on  the  staircase  wall  at  Clopton,  where  he  died 
in  1677,  aged  sixty-five.  He  was  Garter-king-at-arms. 
His  remains  are  buried  in  Stratford  church,  with  an 
epitaph  over  them  by  Dugdale.  Mr.  Ward  owned  the 
estate  about  1840,  and  under  his  direction  many  changes 
were  made  in  the  old  building, —  sixty  workmen  having 
been  employed  upon  it  for  six  months.  The  present 
drawing-room  and  conservatory  were  built  by  Mr.  Ward, 

^  When  the  moat  was  disused  three  "jack  bottles"  were  found  in  its 
bed,  made  of  coarse  glass,  and  bearing  on  the  shoulder  of  each  bottle  the 
crest  of  John-a-Combe.  These  relics  are  in  the  collection  of  Sir  Arthur 
Hodgson. 


44  -  '  C)  CHAP. 

cx^^..  .;.■•-  -t  ^.v..;l,..x   -.    .  .     direct  line  was 

Frances,  bo*;.  ...  >'   'v^j^  mnrriee!  \'Tr   Pnrthenwicke, 

and  dicr!  in  T7Q2. 

-e  IS  of  much  antiquity,  but  it  has  under- 
lie north  and  west -sides  of  the 
the   time  of    Henfy  the 
".ally  surrouii  -th 

arc   renioi 
a  porchway  -sible  across 

the  moat,  and  an  oriel  window  at  the  rignt  of  that  en- 
trance.    Over  the  front  window  are  displayed  the  arms 
ot    Clopton,  —  an   eagle,  perched  upon  a  tun,  bearing 
'       '     and  in  the  gable  appear  the  arms  of  Walker, 
■■iiotto,  Loyaute   men   honneur.      Sir   Edward 
T.nrri  of  Clc^?8<[OHs«8©ii'B)fi3er  the  Restoration, 
iH'-'e  »-o  the  house,  which  used  to 
be  wi:  .  '   tran'^ferred  to  its 

present  position,     k  wa.  ;  Charles 

the  Second,  in  Holland,  in  1649,  the  news  of  the  execu- 
tion of  his  father.  A  portrait  of  the  knight,  by  Dobson, 
hangs  oh  the  ■  at  Clopton,  where  he  died 

in  1677.  sixty-tive.     He  was  Garter-king-at-arms. 

H'  cuns  are  buried  in  Stratford  church,  with  an 

epiiaph  over  them  by  Dugdale.  Mr.  Ward  owned  the 
estate  about  1840,  and  under  his  direction  many  changes 
were  made  in  the  old  building, —  sixty  workmen  having 
been  employed  upon  it  fo'-  -ix  months.  The  present 
drawing-room  and  conse  were  built  by  Mr.  Ward, 

'  When  the  moat  was  disused  three  "  jack  boUies ''  were  found  in  its 
bed,  made  of  c  ' jss,  and  bearing  on  the  shoulder  of  each  bottle  the 

crest  of  John-a  These  relics  are  in  the  collection  of  Sir  Arthur 

Hodgson. 


II  HAUNTED   GLENS   AND   HOUSES 


45 


I 


and  by  him  the  whole  structure  was  "  modernised." 
There  are  wild  stories  that  autographs  and  other  relics 
of  Shakespeare  once  existed  at  Clopton,  and  were  con- 
sumed there,  in  a  bon-fire.  A  stone  in  the  grounds 
marks  the  grave  of  a  silver  eagle,  that  was  starved  to 
death,  through  the  negligence  of  a  gamekeeper,  Novem- 
ber 25,  1795.  There  are  twenty-six  notable  portraits  in 
the  main  hall  of  Clopton,  one  of  them  being  that  of 
Oliver  Cromwell's  mother,  and  another  probably  that 
of  the  unfortunate  and  unhappy  Arabella  Stuart,  —  only 
child  of  the  fifth  Earl  of  Lennox,  —  who  died,  at  the 
Tower  of  London,  in  161 5. 

Warwickshire  swarmed  with  conspirators  while  the 
Gunpowder  Plot  was  in  progress.  The  Lion  Inn  at 
Dunchurch  was  the  chief  tryst  of  the  captains  who  were 
to  lead  their  forces  and  capture  the  Princess  Elizabeth 
and  seize  the  throne  and  the  country,  after  the  expected 
explosion,  —  which  never  came.  And  when  the  game 
was  up  and  Fawkes  in  captivity,  it  was  through  War- 
wickshire that  the  "racing  and  chasing"  were  fleetest 
and  wildest,  till  the  desperate  scramble  for  life  and 
safety  went  down  in  blood  at  Hewel  Grange.  Various 
houses  associated  with  that  plot  are  still  extant  in  this 
neighbourhood,  and  when  the  scene  shifts  to  London 
I  and  to  Garnet's  Tyburn  gallows,  it  is  easily  possible  for 
1  the  patient  antiquarian  to  tread  in  almost  every  foot- 
print of  that  great  conspiracy. 

Since  Irish  ruffians  began  to  toss  dynamite  about  in 
public  buildings  it  has  been  deemed  essential  to  take 
especial  precaution  against  the  danger  of  explosion  in 
such  places  as  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  Westminster 
Abbey,  and  the  Tower  of  London.     Much  more  dam- 


S 


<c< 


•^3 
S 

I 


1 


I 

.5 


CHAP.  II  HAUNTED   GLENS   AND   HOUSES  47 

age  than  the  newspapers  recorded  was  done  by  the 
explosions  that  occurred  some  time  ago  in  the  Tower 
and  the  Palace.  At  present  you  cannot  enter  even  into 
Palace  Yard  unless  connected  with  the  public  business 
or  authorised  by  an  order ;  and  if  you  visit  the  Tower 
without  a  special  permit  you  will  be  restricted  to  a  few 
sights  and  places.  I  was  fortunately  the  bearer  of  the 
card  of  the  Lord  Chamberlain,  on  a  recent  prowl 
through  the  Tower,  and  therefore  was  favoured  by  the 
beef-eaters  who  pervade  that  structure.  Those  damp 
and  gloomy  dungeons  were  displayed  wherein  so  many 
Jews  perished  miserably  in  the  reign  of  Edward  the 
First;  and  Little  Ease  was  shown, — the  cell  in  which 
for  several  months  Guy  Fawkes  was  incarcerated,  dur- 
ing Cecil's  wily  investigation  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot. 
A  part  of  the  rear  wall  has  been  removed,  affording  ac- 
cess to  the  adjacent  dungeon ;  but  originally  the  cell 
did  not  give  room  for  a  man  to  lie  down  in  it,  and 
scarce  gave  room  for  him  to  stand  upright.  The  mas- 
sive door,  of  ribbed  and  iron-bound  oak,  still  solid, 
though  worn,  would  make  an  impressive  picture.  A 
poor,  stealthy  cat  was  crawling  about  in  those  subter- 
ranean dens  of  darkness  and  horror,  and  was  left  locked 
in  there  when  we  emerged.  In  St.  Peter's,  on  the  green, 
—  that  little  cemetery  so  eloquently  described  by  Macau- 
lay, —  they  came,  some  time  ago,  upon  the  coffins  of 
Lovat,  Kilmarnock,  and  Balmerino,  the  Scotch  lords  who 
perished  upon  the  block  for  their  complicity  with  the 
rising  for  the  Pretender,  in  1745-47.  The  coffins  were 
much  decayed.  The  plates  were  removed,  and  these 
may  now  be  viewed,  in  a  glass  case  on  the  church  wall, 
over  against  the  spot  where  those  unfortunate  gentle- 


48 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


men  were  buried.^  One  is  of  lead  and  is  in  the  form  of 
a  large  open  scroll.  The  other  two  are  oval  in  shape, 
large,  and  made  of  pewter.  Much  royal  and  noble  dust 
is  heaped  together  beneath  the  stones  of  the  chancel, — 
Anne  Boleyn,  Catherine  Howard,  Lady  Jane  Grey,  Mar- 
garet, Duchess  of  Salisbury,  the  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  Essex,  Overbury,  Thomas 


Warwick  Castle,  from  the  River. 

Cromwell,  and  many  more.  The  body  of  the  infamous 
and  execrable  Jeffreys  was  once  buried  there,  but  it  has 
been  removed. 

St.  Mary's  church  at  Warwick  has  been  restored  since 
1885,  and  now  it  is  made  a  show  place.     The  pilgrim 


1  It  is  said  that  the  remains  of  Lord  Lovat  were,  soon  after  his  execu- 
•tion,  secretly  removed,  and  buried  at  his  home  near  Inverness,  and  that  the 
head  was  sewed  to  the  body. 


II  HAUNTED   GLENS   AND    HOUSES 


49 


may  see  the  Beauchamp  chapel,  in  which  are  entombed 
Thomas  Beauchamp,  Earl  of  Warwick,  the  founder  of 
the  church  ;  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  in  whose 
Latin  epitaph  it  is  stated  that  "  his  sorrowful  wife,  Lae- 
titia,  daughter  of  Francis  Knolles,  through  a  sense  of 
conjugal  love  and  fidelity,  hath  put  up  this  monument 
to  the  best  and  dearest  of  husbands  "  ;  ^  Ambrose  Dud- 
ley, elder  brother  to  Elizabeth's  favourite,  and  known  as 
the  Good  Earl  [he  relinquished  his  title  and  possessions 
to  Robert]  ;  and  that  Fulke  Greville,  Lord  Brooke,  who 
lives  in  fame  as  "the  friend  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney." 
There  are  other  notable  sleepers  in  that  chapel,  but 
these  perhaps  are  the  most  famous  and  considerable. 
One  odd  epitaph  records  of  William  Viner,  steward  to 
Lord  Brooke,  that  "  he  was  a  man  entirely  of  ancient 
manners,  and  to  whom  you  will  scarcely  find  an  equal, 
particularly  in  point  of  liberality.  .  .  .  He  was  added 
to  the  number  of  the  heavenly  inhabitants  maturely  for 
himself,  but  prematurely  for  his  friends,  in  his  70th 
year,  on  the  28th  of  April,  a.d.  1639."  Another, 
placed  for  himself  by  Thomas  Hewett  during  his  life- 

1  Robert  Dudley  [1532-1588]  seems  not  to  have  been  an  admirable 
man,  but  certain  facts  of  his  life  appear  to  have  been  considerably  mis- 
represented. He  married  Amy  Robsart,  daughter  of  Sir  John  Robsart,  of 
Siderstern,  Norfolk,  on  June  4,  1550,  publicly,  and  in  presence  of  King 
Edward  the  Sixth.  Amy  Robsart  never  became  Countess  of  Leicester, 
but  died,  in  1560,  four  years  before  Dudley  became  Earl  of  Leicester,  by 
a  "  mischance,"  —  namely,  an  accidental  fall  downstairs,  —  at  Cumnor  Hall, 
near  Abingdon.  She  was  not  at  Kenilworth,  as  represented  in  Scott's 
novel,  at  the  time  of  the  great  festival  in  honour  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  in 
1575,  because  at  that  time  she  had  been  dead  fifteen  years.  Dudley 
secretly  married  Douglas  Howard,  Lady  Sheffield,  in  1572-73,  but  would 
never  acknowledge  her.  His  third  wife  was  the  Lsetitia  whose  affection 
deplores  him,  in  the  Beauchamp  chapel. 

D 


50  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  ii 

time,  modestly  describes  him  as  "  a  most  miserable  sin- 
ner." Sin  is  always  miserable  when  it  knows  itself. 
Still  another,  and  this  in  good  verse,  by  Gervas  Clifton, 
gives  a  tender  tribute  to  Lastitia,  "the  excellent  and 
pious  Lady  Lettice,"  Countess  of  Leicester,  who  died 
on  Christmas  morning,   1634: 

"  She  that  in  her  younger  years 
Matched  with  two  great  English  peers ; 
She  that  did  supply  the  wars 
With  thunder,  and  the  Court  with  stars; 
She  that  in  her  youth  had  been 
Darling  to  the  maiden  Queene, 
Till  she  was  content  to  quit 
Her  favour  for  her  favourite.  .   .  . 
While  she  lived  she  lived  thus, 
Till  that  God,  displeased  with  us, 
Suffered  her  at  last  to  fall, 
Not  from  Him  but  from  us  all." 

A  noble  bust  of  that  fine  thinker  and  exquisite  poet 
Walter  Savage  Landor  has  been  placed  on  the  west  wall 
of  St.  Mary's  church.  He  was  a  native  of  Warwick  and 
he  is  fitly  commemorated  in  that  place.  The  bust  is  of 
alabaster  and  is  set  in  an  alabaster  arch  with  carved  en- 
vironment, and  with  the  family  arms  displayed  above. 
The  head  of  Landor  shows  great  intellectual  power, 
rugged  yet  gentle.  Coming  suddenly  upon  the  bust, 
in  this  church,  the  pilgrim  is  forcibly  and  pleasantly 
reminded  of  the  attribute  of  sweet  and  gentle  reverence 
in  the  English  character,  which  so  invariably  expresses 
itself,  all  over  this  land,  in  honourable  memorials  to  the 
honourable  dead.  No  rambler  in  Warwick  omits  to 
explore  Leicester's  hospital,  or  to  see  as  much  as  he  can 
of  the  Castle,     That  glorious  old  place  has  long  been 


j^i  ^k  Ami 


^ 
^ 


52 


GRAY  DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP.   II 


kept  closed,  for  fear  of  the  dynamite  fiend ;  but  now  it 
is  once  more  accessible.  I  walked  again  beneath  the 
stately  cedars  ^  and  along  the  bloom-bordered  avenues 
where  once  Joseph  Addison  used  to  wander  and  medi- 
tate, and  traversed  again  those  opulent  state  apartments 
wherein  so  many  royal,  noble,  and  beautiful  faces  look 
forth  from  the  radiant  canvas  of  Holbein  and  Vandyke. 
There  is  a  wonderful  picture,  in  one  of  those  rooms,  of 
Thomas  Wentworth,  Earl  of  Strafford,  when  a  young 
man,  —  a  face  prophetic  of  stormy  life,  baleful  struggles, 
and  a  hard  and  miserable  fate.  You  may  see  the  hel- 
met that  was  worn  by  Oliver  Cromwell,  and  also  a  strik- 
ing death-mask  of  his  face ;  and  some  of  the  finest 
portraits  of  Charles  the  First  that  exist  in  this  king- 
dom are  shown  at  Warwick  Castle. 

1  Those  cedars  are  ranked  with  the  most  superb  trees  in  the  British 
Islands.  Two  of  the  group  were  torn  up  by  the  roots  during  a  terrific  gale, 
which  swept  across  England,  leaving  ruin  in  its  track,  on  Sunday,  March 
24,  1895. 


From  the    Warwick  Shield. 


CHAPTER   III 


OLD    YORK 


ORK,  August  12,  1888.  —  All  summer 
long  the  sorrowful  skies  have  been  weep- 
ing over  England,  and  my  first  prospect 
of  this  ancient  city  was  a  prospect  through 
drizzle  and  mist.  Yet  even  so  it  was  im- 
pressive. York  is  one  of  the  quaintest 
cities  in  the  kingdom.  Many  of  the  streets  are  narrow 
and  crooked.  Most  of  the  buildings  are  of  low  stature, 
built  of  brick,  and  roofed  with  red  tiles.  Here  and 
there  you  find  a  house  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  pict- 
uresque with  overhanging  timber-crossed  fronts  and 
peaked  gables.  One  such  house,  in  Stonegate,  is  con- 
spicuously marked  with  its  date,  1574.  Another,  in 
College  street,  enclosing  a  quadrangular  court  and 
lovely  with  old  timber  and  carved  gateway,  was  built 
by  the  Neville  family  in  1460.  There  is  a  wide  area 
in  the  centre  of  the  town  called  Parliament  street, 
where  the  market  is  opened,  by  torchlight,  on  certain 
evenings  of  every  week.  It  was  market-time  last  even- 
ing, and,  wandering  through  the  motley  and  merry 
crowd   that    filled   the    square,    about   nine    o'clock,    I 

53 


54 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


bought,  at  a  flower-stall,  the  white  rose  of  York  and  the 
red  rose  of  Lancaster,  —  twinmg  them  together  as  an 
emblem  of  the  settled  peace  that  here  broods  so  sweetly 
over  the  venerable  relics  of  a  wild  and  stormy  past. 

Four  sections  of  the  old  wall  of  York  are  still  extant 
and  the  observer  is  amused  to  perceive  the  ingenuity 
with  which  those  gray  and  mouldering  remnants  of  the 
feudal  age  are  blended  into  the  structures  of  the  demo- 


Jn 


~^L'^ 


".rl 


m. 

v: 


I,',' 


Bootham  Bar. 


cratic  present.  From  Bootham  to  Monk  Gate,  —  so 
named  in  honour  of  General  Monk,  at  the  Restoration, 
—  a  distance  of  about  half  a  mile,  the  wall  is  absorbed 
by  the  adjacent  buildings.  But  you  may  walk  upon  it 
from  Monk  Gate  to  Jewbury,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
and  afterward,  crossing  the  Foss,  you  may  iind  it 
again  on  the  southeast  of  the  city,  and  walk  upon  it 


Ill  OLD   YORK  55 

from  Red  Tower  to  old  Fishergate,  descending  near 
York  Castle.  There  are  houses  both  within  the  walls 
and  without.  The  walk  is  about  eight  feet  wide,  pro- 
tected on  one  hand  by  a  fretted  battlement  and  on  the 
other  by  an  occasional  bit  of  iron  fence.  The  base  of 
the  wall,  for  a  considerable  part  of  its  extent,  is  fringed 
with  market  gardens  or  with  grassy  banks.  In  one  of 
its  towers  there  is  a  gate-house,  still  occupied  as  a 
dwelling ;  and  a  comfortable  dwelling  no  doubt  it  is. 
In  another,  of  which  nothing  now  remains  but  the 
walls,  four  large  trees  are  rooted;  and,  as  they  are 
already  tall  enough  to  wave  their  leafy  tops  above  the 
battlement,  they  must  have  been  growing  there  for  at 
least  twenty  years.  At  one  point  the  Great  Northern 
Railway  enters  through  an  arch  in  the  ancient  wall, 
and  as  you  look  down  from  the  battlements  your  gaze 
rests  upon  long  lines  of  rail  and  a  spacious  station, 
together  with  its  adjacent  hotel,  —  objects  which  consort 
but  strangely  with  what  your  fancy  knows  of  York ; 
a  city  of  donjons  and  barbicans,  the  moat,  the  draw- 
bridge, the  portcullis,  the  citadel,  the  man-at-arms,  and 
the  knight  in  armour,  with  the  banners  of  William  the 
Norman  flowing  over  all. 

The  river  Ouse  divides  the  city  of  York,  which  lies 
mostly  upon  its  east  bank,  and  in  order  to  reach  the 
longest  and  most  attractive  portion  of  the  wall  that  is 
now  available  to  the  pedestrian  you  must  cross  the 
Ouse,  either  at  Skeldergate  or  Lendal,  paying  a  half- 
penny as  toll,  both  when  you  go  and  when  you  return. 
The  walk  here  is  three-quarters  of  a  mile  long,  and 
from  an  angle  of  this  wall,  just  above  the  railway  arch, 
may  be  obtained  the  best  view  of  the  mighty  cathedral, 


56  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

—  one  of  the  most  stupendous  and  sublime  works  that 
ever  were  erected  by  the  inspired  brain  and  loving 
labour  of  man.  While  I  walked  there  last  night,  and 
mused  upon  the  story  of  the  Wars  of  the  Roses,  and 
strove  to  conjure  up  the  pageants  and  the  horrors  that 
must  have  been  presented,  all  about  this  region,  in  that 
remote  and  turbulent  past,  the  glorious  bells  of  the 
minster  were  chiming  from  its  towers,  while  the  fresh 
evening  breeze,  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  wet  flowers 
and  foliage,  seemed  to  flood  this  ancient,  venerable  city 
with  the  golden  music  of  a  celestial  benediction. 

The  pilgrim  to  York  stands  in  the  centre  of  the 
largest  shire  in  England  and  is  surrounded  with  castles 
and  monasteries,  now  mostly  in  ruins  but  teeming  with 
those  associations  of  history  and  literature  that  are  the 
glory  of  this  delightful  land.  From  the  summit  of  the 
great  central  tower  of  the  cathedral,  which  is  reached 
by  two  hundred  and  thirty-seven  steps,  I  gazed  out 
over  the  vale  of  York  and  beheld  one  of  the  loveliest 
spectacles  that  ever  blessed  the  eyes  of  man.  The 
wind  was  fierce,  the  sun  brilliant,  and  the  vanquished 
storm-clouds  were  streaming  away  before  the  northern 
blast.  Far  beneath  lay  the  red-roofed  city,  its  devious 
lanes  and  its  many  gray  churches,  —  crumbling  relics  of 
ancient  ecclesiastical  power,  —  distinctly  visible.  Through 
the  plain,  and  far  away  toward  the  south  and  east,  ran 
the  silver  thread  of  the  Ouse,  while  all  around,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  stretched  forth  a  smiling  land- 
scape of  emerald  meadow  and  cultivated  field ;  here  a 
patch  of  woodland,  and  there  a  silver  gleam  of  wave ; 
here  a  manor-house  nestled  amid  stately  trees,  and 
there  an  ivy-covered  fragment  of  ruined  masonry ;  and 


Ill 


OLD   YORK 


57 


everywhere  the  green  lines  of  the  flowering  hedge. 
The  prospect  is  even  finer  here  than  it  is  from  the 
splendid  summit  of  Strasburg  cathedral ;  and  indeed, 
when  all  is  said  that  can  be  said  about  natural  scenery 
and  architectural  sublimities,  it  seems  amazing  that  any 
lover  of  the  beautiful  should  deem  it  necessary  to  quit 
the  infinite  variety  of  the  British  islands.     Earth  can- 


Vork  Cathedral —  West  Front. 


not  show  you  anything  more  softly  fair  than  the  lakes 
and  mountains  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland.  No 
city  can  excel  Edinburgh  in  stately  solidity  of  char- 
acter, or  tranquil  grandeur,  or  magnificence  of  position. 
The  most  exquisitely  beautiful  of  churches  is  Roslin 
chapel.  And  though  you  search  the  wide  world  through 
you  will  never  find  such  cathedrals,  —  so  fraught  with 


58  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  chap. 

majesty,  sublimity,  the  loveliness  of  human  art,  and  the 

ecstatic  sense  of  a  divine  element  in  human  destiny,  — 

as  those  of  York,  Canterbury,  Gloucester,  and  Lincoln. 

While  thus    I    lingered   in   wondering  meditation  upon 

;    the    crag-like    summit    of    York   minster,    the    muffled 

thunder  of  its  vast,  sonorous   organ  rose,  rolling  and 

throbbing,  from  the  mysterious  depth  below,  and  seemed 

I     to  shake  the  great  tower  as  with  a  mighty  blast  of  jubi- 

l    lation  and  worship.     At  such  moments,  if  ever,  when 

'    the  tones  of  human  adoration  are  floating  up  to  heaven, 

a  man  is  lifted  out  of  himself  and  made  to  forget  his 

puny  mortal  existence  and  all  the  petty  nothings  that 

weary    his    spirit,    darken    his    vision,   and    weigh    him 

down   to  the  level  of  the  sordid,  trivial  world.      Well 

did   they  know  this,  —  those  old  monks  who  built  the 

abbeys   of   Britain,   laying  their  foundations  not  alone 

deeply  in  the  earth  but  deeply  in  the  human  soul ! 

All  the  ground  that  you  survey  from  the  top  of  York 
minster  is  classic  ground,  —  at  least  to  those  persons 
whose  imaginations  are  kindled  by  associations  with  the 
stately  and  storied  past.  In  the  city  that  lies  at  your 
feet  once  stood  the  potent  Constantine,  to  be  proclaimed 
emperor  [a.d.  306]  and  to  be  vested  with  the  imperial 
purple  of  Rome.  In  the  original  York  minster, — for 
the  present  is  the  fourth  church  that  has  been  erected 
upon  this  site,  —  was  buried  that  valiant  soldier  "  old 
Siward,"  whom  "  gracious  England  "  lent  to  the  Scot- 
tish cause,  under  Malcolm  and  Macduff,  when  time  at 
length  was  ripe  for  the  ruin  of  Glamis  and  Cawdor. 
Close  by  is  the  field  of  Stamford,  where  Harold  de- 
feated the  Norwegians,  with  terrible  slaughter,  only  nine 
days  before  he  was  himself  defeated  and  slain  at  lias- 


's 


Ill  OLD   YORK 


59 


tings.  Southward,  following  the  line  of  the  Ouse,  you 
look  down  upon  the  ruins  of  Clifford's  Tower,  built  by 
William  the  Conqueror,  in  1068,  and  destroyed  by  the 
explosion  of  its  powder  magazine  in  1684.  Not  far 
away  is  the  battlefield  of  Tovvton,  where  the  great  War- 
wick slew  his  horse,  that  he  might  fight  on  foot  and  pos- 
sess no  advantage  over  the  common  soldiers  of  his  force. 
Henry  the  Sixth  and  Margaret  were  waiting  in  York 
for  news  of  the  event  of  that  fatal  battle,  —  which, 
in  its  effect,  made  them  exiles  and  bore  to  an  assured 
supremacy  the  rightful  standard  of  the  White  Rose. 
In  this  church  Edward  the  Fourth  was  crowned  [1464], 
and  Richard  the  Third  was  proclaimed  king  and  had 
his  second  coronation.  Southward  you  may  see  the 
open  space  called  the  Pavement,  connecting  with  Par- 
liament street,  and  the  red  brick  church  of  St.  Crux. 
In  the  Pavement  the  Earl  of  Northumberland  was  be- 
headed, for  treason  against  Queen  Elizabeth,  in  1572, 
and  in  St.  Crux  [one  of  Wren's  churches]  his  remains 
lie  buried,  beneath  a  dark  blue  slab,  still  shown  to  vis- 
itors. A  few  miles  away,  but  easily  within  reach  of 
your  vision,  is  the  field  of  Marston  Moor,  where  the  im- 
petuous Prince  Rupert  imperilled  and  well-nigh  lost  the 
cause  of  Charles  the  First,  in  1644;  and  as  you  look 
toward  that  fatal  spot  you  can  almost  hear,  in  the  cham- 
ber of  your  fancy,  the  paeans  of  thanksgiving  for  the  vic- 
tory that  were  uttered  in  the  church  beneath.  Cromwell, 
then  a  subordinate  officer  in  the  Parliamentary  army, 
was  one  of  the  worshippers.  Charles  also  has  knelt  at 
this  altar.  Indeed,  of  the  fifteen  kings,  from  William 
of  Normandy  to  Henry  of  Windsor,  whose  sculptured 
efiigies  appear  upon  the  chancel  screen  in  York  minster, 


6o 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


there  is  scarcely  one  who  has  not  worshipped  in  this 
cathedral. 

York  minster  has  often  been  described,  but  no  de- 
scription can  convey  an  adequate  impression  of  its 
grandeur.  Canterbury  is  the  lovelier  cathedral  of  the 
two,  though  not  the  grander,  and  Canterbury  possesses 
the  inestimable  advantage  of  a  spacious  close.  It  must 
be  said  also,  for  the  city  of  Canterbury,  that  the  pres- 
ence and  influence  of  a  great  church  are  more  distinctly 
and  delightfully  felt  in  that  place  than  they  are  in  York. 
There  is  a  more  spiritual  tone  at  Canterbury,  a  tone  of 


I '  ix»..7,r;  r\i li*'  «fe — 4ml «"'   --:  v""^. 


^'W;i,„^^^^^^_^^  ^_^ 


York   Cat/led/ a/ — South  Side. 


superior  delicacy  and  refinement,  a  certain  aristocratic 
coldness  and  repose.  In  York  you  perceive  the  coarse 
spirit  of  a  democratic  era.  The  walls,  that  ought  to  be 
cherished  with  scrupulous  care,  are  found  in  many 
places  to  be  ill-used.  At  intervals  along  the  walks 
upon  the  banks  of  the  Ouse  you  behold  placards  re- 
questing the  co-operation  of  the  public  in  protecting 
from  harm  the  swans  that  navigate  the  river.  Even  in 
the  cathedral  itself  there  is  displayed  a  printed  notice 
that  the  Dean  and  Chapter  are  amazed  at  disturbances 


Ill  OLD   YORK  6 1 

which  occur  in  the  nave  while  divine  service  is  proceed- 
ing in  the  choir.  These  things  imply  a  rough  element 
in  the  population,  and  in  such  a  place  as  York  such  an 
element  is  exceptionally  offensive  and  deplorable. 

It  was  said  by  the  wise  Lord  Beaconsfield  that  progress 
in  the  nineteenth  century  is  found  to  consist  chiefly  in 
a  return  to  ancient  ideas.  There  may  be  places  to  which 
the  characteristic  spirit  of  the  present  day  contributes 
an  element  of  beauty ;  but  if  so  I  have  not  seen  them. 
Wherever  there  is  beauty  there  is  the  living  force  of 
tradition  to  account  for  it.  The  most  that  a  conserva- 
tive force  in  society  can  accomplish,  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  an  instinct  in  favour  of  whatever  is  beautiful  and 
impressive,  is  to  protect  what  remains  from  the  past. 
Modern  Edinburgh,  for  example,  has  contributed  no 
building  that  is  comparable  with  its  glorious  old  castle, 
or  with  Roslin,  or  with  what  we  know  to  have  been 
Melrose  or  Dryburgh ;  but  its  castle  and  its  chapels  are 
protected  and  preserved.  York,  in  the  present  day, 
erects  a  commodious  railway-station  and  a  sumptuous 
hotel,  and  spans  its  ample  river  with  two  splendid 
bridges ;  but  its  modern  architecture  is  puerile  beside 
that  of  its  ancient  minster ;  and  so  its  best  work,  after 
all,  is  the  preservation  of  its  cathedral.  The  observer 
finds  it  difficult  to  understand  how  anybody,  however 
lowly  born  or  poorly  endowed  or  meanly  nurtured,  can 
live  within  the  presence  of  that  heavenly  building,  and 
not  be  purified  and  exalted  by  the  contemplation  of  so 
much  majesty,  and  by  its  constantly  irradiative  force  of 
religious  sentiment  and  power.  But  the  spirit  which  in 
the  past  created  objects  of  beauty  and  adorned  common 
life  with  visible  manifestations  of  the  celestial  aspiration 


62 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


in  human  nature  had  constantly  to  struggle  against  in- 
sensibility or  violence ;  and  just  so  the  few  who  have 
inherited  that  spirit  in  the  present  day  are  compelled 
steadily  to  combat  the  hard  materialism  and  gross  ani- 
mal proclivities  of  the  new  age. 


.' ^■A'fif.'/f///.  '^'■'v.:. 


York  Cathedral  -. —  East  Front. 

What  a  comfort  their  souls  must  find  in  such  an 
edifice  as  York  minster !  What  a  solace  and  what  an 
inspiration  !  There  it  stands,  dark  and  lonely  to-night, 
but  symbolising,  as  no  other  object  upon  earth  can  ever 
do,  except  one  of  its  own  great  kindred,  God's  promise 


Ill 


OLD   YORK  63 


of  immortal  life  to  man,  and  man's  unquenchable  faith 
in  the  promise  of  God.  Dark  and  lonely  now,  but 
during  many  hours  of  its  daily  and  nightly  life  sentient, 
eloquent,  vital,  participating  in  all  the  thought,  conduct, 
and  experience  of  those  who  dwell  around  it.  The 
beautiful  peal  of  its  bells  that  I  heard  last  night  was  for 
Canon  Baillie,  one  of  the  oldest  and  most  beloved  and 
venerated  of  its  clergy.  This  morning,  sitting  in  its 
choir,  I  heard  the  tender,  thoughtful  eulogy  so  simply 
and  sweetly  spoken  by  the  aged  Dean,  and  once  again 
learned  the  essential  lesson  that  an  old  age  of  grace, 
patience,  and  benignity  means  a  pure  heart,  an  unself- 
ish spirit,  and  a  good  life  passed  in  the  service  of 
others.  This  afternoon  I  had  a  place  among  the  wor- 
shippers that  thronged  the  nave  to  hear  the  special 
anthem  chanted  for  the  deceased  Canon  ;  and,  as  the 
organ  pealed  forth  its  mellow  thunder,  and  the  rich 
tones  of  the  choristers  swelled  and  rose  and  broke  in 
golden  waves  of  melody  upon  the  groined  arches  and 
vaulted  roof,  my  soul  seemed  borne  away  to  a  peace 
and  rest  that  are  not  of  this  world.  To-night  the  rising 
moon  as  she  gleams  through  drifting  clouds,  will  pour 
her  silver  rays  upon  that  great  east  window,  —  at  once 
the  largest  and  the  most  beautiful  in  existence,  —  and  all 
the  Bible  stories  told  there  in  such  exquisite  hues  and 
forms  will  glow  with  heavenly  lustre  on  the  dark  vista 
of  chancel  and  nave.  And  when  the  morning  comes 
the  first  beams  of  the  rising  sun  will  stream  through 
the  great  casement  and  illumine  the  figures  of  saints 
and  archbishops,  and  gild  the  old  tattered  battle-flags 
in  the  chancel  aisle,  and  touch  with  blessing  the  marble 
effigies  of  the  dead  ;  and  we  who  walk  there,  refreshed 


64  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


and  comforted,   shall   feel   that   the    vast  cathedral    is 
indeed  the  gateway  to  heaven. 

York  minster  is  the  loftiest  of  all  the  English  cathedrals, 
and  the  third  in  length,^  —  both  St.  Albans  and  Winches- 
ter being  longer.  The  present  structure  is  six  hundred 
years  old,  and  more  than  two  hundred  years  were  occu- 
pied in  the  building  of  it.  They  show  you,  in  the  crypt, 
some  fine  remains  of  the  Norman  church  that  preceded 
it  upon  the  same  site,  together  with  traces  of  the  still 
older  Saxon  church  that  preceded  the  Norman.  The 
first  one  was  of  wood  and  was  totally  destroyed.  The 
Saxon  remains  are  a  fragment  of  stone  staircase  and 
a  piece  of  wall  built  in  the  ancient  herring-bone  fashion. 
The  Norman  remains  are  four  clustered  columns,  em- 
bellished in  the  zigzag  style.  There  is  not  much  of 
commemorative  statuary  at  York  minster,  and  what 
there  is  of  it  was  placed  chiefly  in  the  chancel.  Arch- 
bishop Richard  Scrope,  who  figures  in  Shakespeare's 
historical  play  of  Henry  tJic  Fourth,  and  who  was  be- 
headed for  treason  in  1405,  was  buried  in  the  lady 
chapel.  Laurence  Sterne's  grandfather,  who  was 
chaplain  to  Laud,  is  represented  there,  in  his  ecclesi- 
astical dress,  reclining  upon  a  couch  and  supporting 
his  mitred  head  upon  his  hand,  —  a  squat  figure  uncom- 
fortably posed,  but  sculptured  with  delicate  skill.  Many 
historic  names  occur  in  the  inscriptions,  —  Wentworth, 
Finch,  Fenwick,  Carlisle,  and  Heneage,  —  and  in  the 
north  aisle  of  the  chancel  is  the  tomb  of  William  of 
Hatfield,  second  son  of  Edward  the  Third,  who  died  in 


Length. 

Height  of  Tower. 

^  Winchester 

.           .           556  ft. 

138  ft. 

St.  Albans 

548  ft.  4  in. 

144  ft. 

York  . 

524  ft.  6  in. 

213  ft. 

Ill  OLD   YORK 


65 


1343-44,  in  the  eighth  year  of  his  age.  An  alabaster 
statue  of  the  royal  boy  reclines  upon  his  tomb.  In  the 
cathedral  library,  which  contains  eight  thousand  volumes 
and  is  kept  at  the  Deanery,  is  the  Princess  Elizabeth's 
prayer-book,  containing  her  autograph.  In  one  of  the 
chapels  is  the  original  throne-chair  of  Edward  the  Third. 
In  St.  Leonard's  Place  still  stands  the  York  theatre, 
erected  by  Tate  Wilkinson  in  1765.  In  York  Castle 
Eugene  Aram  was  imprisoned  and  suffered  death. 
The  poet  and  bishop  Beilby  Porteus,  the  sculptor 
Flaxman,  the  grammarian  Lindley  Murray,  and  the 
fanatic  Guy  Fawkes  were  natives  of  York,  and  have 
often  walked  its  streets.  Standing  on  Skeldergate 
bridge,  few  readers  of  English  fiction  could  fail  to  r#all 
that  exquisite  description  of  the  place,  in  the  novel  of 
No  Name.  In  his  artistic  use  of  weather,  atmosphere, 
and  colour  Wilkie  Collins  is  always  remarkable  equally 
for  his  fidelity  to  nature  and  fact,  and  for  the  felicity 
and  beauty  of  his  language.  His  portrayal  of  York 
seems  more  than  ever  a  gem  of  literary  art,  when  you 
have  seen  the  veritable  spot  of  poor  Magdalen's  meet- 
ing with  Captain  Wragge.  The  name  of  Wragge  is  on 
one  of  the  signboards  in  the  city.  The  river,  on  which 
I  did  not  omit  to  take  a  boat,  was  picturesque,  with  its 
many  quaint  barges,  bearing  masts  and  sails  and  em- 
bellished with  touches  of  green  and  crimson  and  blue. 
There  is  no  end  to  the  associations  and  suggestions  of 
the  storied  city.  But  lest  my  readers  weary  of  them, 
let  me  respect  the  admonition  of  the  midnight  bell,  and 
seek  repose  beneath  the  hospitable  wing  of  the  old 
Black  Swan  in  Coney  street,  whence  I  send  this  hum- 
ble memorial  of  ancient  York. 


CHAPTER    IV 


THE    HAUNTS    OF    MOORE 


EVIZES,  Wiltshire,  August  20,  1888. 
—  The  scarlet  discs  of  the  poppies  and 
the  red  and  white  blooms  of  the  clover, 
together  with  wild-flowers  of  many  hues, 
bespangle  now  the  emerald  sod  of  Eng- 
land, while  the  air  is  rich  with  fragrance  of  lime-trees 
and  of  new-mown  hay.  The  busy  and  sagacious  rooks, 
fat  and  bold,  wing  their  way  in  great  clusters,  bent  on 
forage  and  mischief.  There  is  almost  a  frosty  chill  in 
the  autumnal  air,  and  the  brimming  rivers,  dark  and 
deep  and  smoothly  flowing  through  the  opulent,  culti- 
vated, and  park-like  region  of  Wiltshire,  look  cold  and 
bright.  In  many  fields  the  hay  is  cut  and  stacked.  In 
others  the  men,  and  often  the  women,  armed  with  rakes, 
are  tossing  it  to  dry  in  the  reluctant,  intermittent,  bleak 
sunshine  of  this  rigorous  August.  Overhead  the  sky 
is  now  as  blue  as  the  deep  sea  and  now  grim  and  omi- 
nous with  great  drifting  masses  of  slate-coloured  cloud. 
There  are  moments  of  beautiful  sunshine  by  day,  and 

66 


CHAP.  IV 


THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE 


67 


wnt- 
u  p  o  n    the 


in  some  hours  of  the  night  the  moon  shines  forth  in  all 
her  pensive  and  melancholy  glory.  It  is  a  time  of  ex- 
quisite loveliness,  and  it  has  seemed  a  fitting  time  for 
a  visit  to  the  last  English  home  and  the  last  resting- 
place  of  the  poet  of  loveliness  and  love,  the  great  Irish 
poet  Thomas  Moore. 

When  Moore  first  went  up  to  London,  a  young  author 
seeking  to   launch 
his    earliest 
ings 

stream  of  contem- 
porary literature, 
he  crossed  from 
Dublin  to  Bristol 
and  then  travelled 
to  the  capital  by 
vv^ay  of  Bath  and 
Devizes  ;  and  as 
he  crossed  several 
times  he  must  soon 
have  gained  famil- 
iarity vs^ith  this  part 
of  the  country.  He 
did  not,  hovi^ever, 
settle  in  Wiltshire 

until  some  years  afterward.  His  first  lodging  in  London 
was  a  front  room,  up  two  pair  of  stairs,  at  No.  44  George 
street,  Portman  square.  He  subsequently  lived  at  No. 
46  Wigmore  street,  Cavendish  square,  and  at  No.  27 
Bury  street,  St.  James's.  This  was  in  1805.  In  1810 
he  resided  for  a  time  at  No.  22  Molesworth  street, 
Dublin,   but    he    soon    returned   to    England.     One   of 


Thomas  Moore, 


68  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

his  homes,  shortly  after  his  marriage  with  EHzabeth 
Dyke  ["Bessie,"  the  sister  of  the  great  actress  Mary 
Duff,  1 794-1 857]  was  in  Brompton.  In  the  spring  of 
1812  he  settled  at  Kegworth,  but  a  year  later  he  is 
found  at  Mayfield  Cottage,  near  Ashbourne,  Derbyshire. 
"  I  am  now  as  you  wished,"  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Power,  the 
music-publisher,  July  i,  18 13,  "within  twenty-four  hours' 
drive  of  town."  In  18 17  he  occupied  a  cottage  near  the 
foot  of  Muswell  Hill,  at  Hornsey,  Middlesex,  but  after 
he  lost  his  daughter  Barbara,  who  died  there,  the  place 
became  distressful  to  him  and  he  left  it.  In  the  latter 
part  of  September  that  year,  the  time  of  their  afflic- 
tion, Moore  and  his  Bessie  were  the  guests  of  Lady 
Donegal,  at  No.  56  Davies  street,  Berkeley  square, 
London.  Then  [November  19,  1817]  they  removed  to 
Sloperton  Cottage,  at  Bromham,  near  Devizes,  and 
their  permanent  residence  was  established  in  that  place. 
Lord  Landsdowne,  one  of  the  poet's  earliest  and  best 
friends,  was  the  owner  of  that  estate,  and  doubtless  he 
was  the  impulse  of  Moore's  resort  to  it.  The  present 
Lord  Landsdowne  still  owns  Bowood  Park,  about  four 
miles  away. 

Devizes  impresses  a  stranger  with  a  singular  and 
pleasant  sense  of  suspended  animation,  —  as  of  beauty 
fallen  asleep,  —  the  sense  of  something  about  to  happen, 
which  never  occurs.  More  peaceful  it  could  not  be, 
unless  it  were  dead,  — and  that  is  its  most  alluring 
charm.  Two  of  its  many  streets  are  remarkably  wide 
and  spacious,  while  the  others  are  narrow  and  often 
crooked.  Most  of  its  habitations  are  low  houses,  built 
of  brick,  and  only  a  few  of  them,  such  as  the  old  Town 
Hall  and  the  Corn  Exchange,  are  pretentious  as  archi- 


IV 


THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE  69 


tecture.  The  principal  street  runs  nearly  northwest 
and  southeast.  There  is  a  north  gate  at  one  end  of  it, 
and  a  south  gate  at  the  other,  but  no  remnant  of  the 
ancient  town  gates  is  left.  The  Kennet  and  Avon 
Canal,  built  in  1 794-1 805,  skirts  the  northern  side 
of  the  town,  and  thereafter  descends  the  western  slope, 
passing  through  twenty-seven  magnificent  locks,  within 
a  distance  of  about  two  miles,  —  one  of  the  longest  con- 
secutive ranges  of  locks  in  England.  The  stateliest 
building  in  Devizes  is  its  noble  Castle,  which,  reared 
upon  a  massive  hill,  at  once  dominates  the  surrounding 
landscape  and  dignifies  it.  That  splendid  edifice,  built 
about  1830,  stands  upon  the  site  of  the  ancient  Castle 
of  Devizes,  which  was  built  by  Roger,  Bishop  of  Salis- 
bury, in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  First,  and  it  resembles 
that  famous  original, — long  esteemed  one  of  the  most 
complete  and  admirable  works  of  its  kind  in  Europe. 
The  old  Castle  was  included  in  the  dowry  settled  upon 
successive  queens  of  England.  Queen  Margaret  pos- 
sessed it  in  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Sixth,  and  Queen 
Katharine  in  that  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  It  figured  in 
the  Civil  Wars,  and  it  was  deemed  the  strongest  citadel 
in  England.  The  poet-soldier,  Edmund  Waller,  when  in 
the  service  of  the  Parliament,  bombarded  it,  in  1643, 
and  finally  it  was  destroyed  by  order  of  the  Round- 
heads. Toward  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century  its 
ruins  were,  it  is  said,  surmounted  with  a  couple  of  snuff- 
mills.  No  part  of  the  ancient  fortress  now  survives, 
except  the  moat ;  but  in  its  pleasant  grounds  frag- 
mentary remnants  may  still  be  seen  of  its  foundations 
and  of  the  dungeons  of  a  remote  age.  During  the  re- 
building of  the  Castle  many  relics  were  unearthed, — 


70 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


such  as  human  bones  and  implements  of  war, — the 
significant  tol^ens  of  dark  days  and  fatal  doings  long 
since  past  and  gone.     In  the  centre  of  the  town  is  a 


The  Bear  —  Devizes. 


commodious  public  square,  known  as  the  Market-place, 
—  a  wide  domain  of  repose,  as  I  saw  it,  uninvaded  by 
either  vehicle  or  human  being,  but  on  each  Thursday  the 


IV  THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE  7 1 

scene  of  the  weekly  market  for  cattle  and  corn,  and  of 
the  loquacious  industry  of  the  cheap-jack  and  the  quack. 
On  one  side  of  it  is  the  old  Bear  Hotel,  an  exceptionally 
comfortable  house,  memorable  as  the  birthplace  of  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence,  the  famous  artist  [i  769-1 830].  In 
the  centre  are  two  works  of  art,  —  one  a  fountain,  the 
other  a  cross.  The  latter,  a  fine  fabric  of  Gothic  archi- 
tecture, is  embellished  with  thirteen  pinnacles,  which 
rise  above  an  arched  canopy,  the  covering  of  a  statue. 
One  face  of  the  cross  bears  this  legend  :  "  This  Market 
Cross  was  erected  by  Henry  Viscount  Sidmouth,  as  a 
memorial  of  his  grateful  attachment  to  the  Borough  of 
Devizes,  of  which  he  has  been  Recorder  thirty  years, 
and  of  which  he  was  six  times  unanimously  chosen  a 
representative  in  Parliament.  Anno  Domini  1814." 
Upon  the  other  face  appears  a  record  more  significant, 
■ — ^ being  indicative  ec|ually  of  credulity  and  a  frugal 
mind,  and  being  freighted  with  tragic  import  un- 
matched since  the  Bible  narrative  of  Ananias  and 
Sapphira.     It  reads  thus  : 

"The  Mayor  and  Corporation  of  Devizes  avail  themselves  of  the 
stability  of  this  building  to  transmit  to  future  times  the  record  of  an 
awful  event  which  occurred  in  this  market-place  in  the  year  1753, 
hoping  that  such  a  record  may  serve  as  a  salutary  warning  against 
the  danger  of  impiously  invoking  the  Divine  vengeance,  or  of  call- 
ing on  the  holy  name  of  God  to  conceal  the  devices  of  falsehood 
and  fraud. 

"On  Thursday,  the  25th  January  1753,  Ruth  Pierce,  of  Potterne, 
in  this  county,  agreed,  with  three  other  women,  to  buy  a  sack  of 
wheat  in  the  market,  each  paying  her  due  proportion  toward  the 
same. 

"One  of  these  women,  in  collecting  the  several  quotas  of  money, 
discovered  a  deficiency,  and  demanded  of  Ruth  Pierce  the  sum 
which  was  wanted  to  make  good  the  amount. 


72  GRAY   DAYS   AND    GOLD 


CHAP. 


"  Ruth  Pierce  protested  that  she  had  paid  her  share,  and  said, 
'  She  wished  she  miglit  drop  down  dead  if  she  had  not.' 

"  She  rashly  repeated  this  awful  wisli,  when,  to  tlie  consternation 
of  the  surrounding  multitude,  she  instantly  fell  down  and  expired, 
having  the  money  concealed  in  her  hand." 

That  is  not  the  only  grim  incident  in  the  history  of 
the  Market-place  of  Devizes  ;  for  in  1533  a  poor  tailor, 
named  John  Bent,  of  the  neighbouring  village  of  Urch- 
font  was  burnt  at  the  stake,  in  that  square,  for  his 
avowed  disbelief  of  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiation. 

An  important  and  deeply  interesting  institution  of 
Devizes  is  the  Wilts  County  Museum,  in  Long  street, 
devoted  to  the  natural  history  and  the  archaeology  of 
Wiltshire.  The  library  contains  a  priceless  collection 
of  Wiltshire  books,  and  the  museum  is  rich  in  geologi- 
cal specimens,  —  richer  even  than  the  excellent  museum 
of  Salisbury;  for,  in  addition  to  other  treasures,  it  in- 
cludes the  famous  Stourhead  collection,  made  by  Sir 
Richard  Colt  Hoare,  —  being  relics  from  the  ancient 
British  and  Saxon  barrows  on  the  Wiltshire  downs. 
The  Stourhead  collection  is  described  by  Sir  Richard, 
in  his  book  on  "Antient  Wilts."  Its  cinerary  and  culi- 
nary urns  are  fine  and  numerous.  The  Wilts  County 
Museum  is  fortunate  in  its  curator,  B.  Howard  Cun- 
nington,  Esq.,  of  Rowde  —  an  indefatigable  student, 
devoted  to  Wiltshire,  and  a  thorough  antiquarian. 

An  interesting  church  in  Devizes  is  that  of  St.  John, 
the  Norman  tower  of  which  is  a  relic  of  the  days  of 
Henry  the  Second,  a  vast,  grim  structure  with  a 
circular  turret  on  one  corner  of  it.  Eastward  of  this 
church  is  a  long  and  lovely  avenue  of  trees,  and  around 
it   lies   a  large   burial-place,    remarkable   for  the  excel- 


I 


IV 


THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE 


73 


lence  of  the  sod  and  for  the  number  visible   of  those 
heavy,  gray,  oblong  masses  of  tombstone  which  appear 


Si.  John's   Church  —  Devizes. 


74 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 


to  have  obtained  great  public  favour  about  the  time  of 
Cromwell.  In  the  centre  of  the  churchyard  stands  a 
monolith,  inscribed  with  these  words  : 

"Remember  the  Sabbath-day  to  keep  it  holy. — This  monu- 
ment, as  a  solemn  monitor  to  Young  People  to  remember  their 
Creator  in  the  days  of  their  youth,  was  erected  by  subscription. — ■ 
In  memory  of  the  sudden  and  awful  end  of  Robert  Merrit  and  his 
wife,  Eliz.  Tiley,  her  sister,  Martha  Carter,  and  Josiah  Denham, 
who  were  drowned,  in  the  flower  of  their  youth,  in  a  pond,  near  this 
town,  called  Drews,  on  Sunday  evening,  the  30th  of  June,  175 1, 
and  are  together  underneath  entombed." 

In  one  corner  of  the  churchyard  I  came  upon  a  cross, 
bearing  a  simple  legend  far  more  solemn,  touching,  and 
admonitory  :  "  In  Memoriam  —  Robert  Samuel  Thorn- 
ley.  Died  August  5,  1871.  Aged  48  years.  For 
fourteen  years  surgeon  to  the  poor  of  Devizes.  There 
shall  be  no  more  pain."  And  over  still  another  sleeper 
was  written,  upon  a  fiat  stone,  low  in  the  ground  — 

"  Loving,  beloved,  in  all  relations  true. 
Exposed  to  follies,  but  subdued  by  few : 
Reader,  reflect,  and  copy  if  you  can 
The  simple  virtues  of  this  honest  man." 

Nobody  is  in  haste  in  Devizes,  and  the  pilgrim  who 
seeks  for  peace  could  not  do  better  than  to  tarry  here. 
The  city  bell  which  officially  strikes  the  hours  is  sub- 
dued and  pensive,  and  although  reinforced  with  chimes, 
it  seems  ever  to  speak  under  its  breath.  The  church- 
bell,  however,  rings  long  and  vigorously  and  with  much 
melodious  clangour,  —  as  though  the  local  sinners  were 
more  than  commonly  hard  of  hearing.  Near  to  the 
church  of  St.  John,  are  some  quaint  almshouses,  but  not 
much   seems   to  be    known   of   their   history.     One  of 


IV 


THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE 


75 


them  was  founded  as  a  hospital  for  lepers,  before  a.d. 
1207,  and  it  is  thought  that  one  of  them  was  built  of 
stone  which  remained  after  the  erection  of  the  church. 


-'  :-^- 


Hungerfotd  Chapel —  Devizes. 

Those  almshouses  are  now  governed  by  the  Mayor  and 
Corporation  of  Devizes,  but  perhaps  formerly  they  were 
under  the  direct  control  of  the  Crown.      [See  Tanner's 


76  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


Nolitia.']  There  are  seven  endowments,  one  dating 
back  to  1 64 1,  and  the  houses  are  to  this  day  occupied 
by  widows,  recommended  by  the  churchwardens  of 
St.  Mary's  and  St.  John's.  An  old  inhabitant  of 
Devizes,  named  Bancroft,  left  a  sum  of  money  to  in- 
sure for  himself  a  singular  memorial  service,  — -that  the 
bells  of  St.  John's  church  should  be  solemnly  tolled 
on  the  day  of  his  birth,  and  rung  merrily  on  that  of  his 
death  ;  and  that  service  is  duly  performed  every  year. 
Devizes  is  a  fit  place  for  the  survival  of  ancient  cus- 
toms, and  these  serve  very  pleasantly  to  mark  its  pecul- 
iar and  interesting  character.  The  Town  Crier,  who  is 
a  member  of  the  Corporation,  walks  abroad  arrayed 
in  a  helmet  and  a  uniform  of  brilliant  scarlet, —glories 
that  are  worn  by  no  other  Crier  in  the  kingdom,  ex- 
cepting that  of  York. 

As  I  was  sazine:  at  the  old  church,  surrounded  with 
many  ponderous  tombstones  and  gray  and  cheerless  in 
the  gloaming,  an  old  man  approached  me  and  civilly  be- 
gan a  conversation  about  the  antiquity  of  the  building 
and  the  eloquence  of  its  rector.  When  I  told  him  that 
I  had  walked  to  Bromham  to  attend  the  service  there, 
and  to  see  the  cottage  and  grave  of  Moore,  he  presently 
furnished  to  me  that  little  touch  of  personal  testimony 
which  is  always  so  interesting  and  significant  in  such 
circumstances.  "  I  remember  Tom  Moore,"  he  said  ; 
"I  saw  him  when  he  was  alive.  I  worked  for  him  once 
in  his  house,  and  I  did  some  work  once  on  his  tomb. 
He  was  a  little  man.  He  spoke  to  us  very  pleasantly. 
I  don't  think  he  was  a  preacher.  He  never  preached 
that  I  heard  tell  of.  He  was  a  poet,  I  believe.  He  was 
very  much  liked  here.     I  never  heard  a  word  against 


IV  THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE 


77 


him.  I  am  seventy-nine  years  old  the  thirteenth  of 
December,  and  that'll  soon  be  here.  I've  had  three 
wives  in  my  time,  and  my  third  is  still  living.  It's  a 
fine  old  church,  and  there's  figures  in  it  of  bishops,  and 
kings,  and  queens." 

Most  observers  have  remarked  the  odd  way,  garrulous, 
and  sometimes  unconsciously  humorous,  in  which  senile 
persons  prattle  their  incongruous  and  sporadic  recollec- 
tions. But  —  "How  pregnant  sometimes  his  replies 
are !  "  Another  resident  of  Devizes,  with  whom  I  con- 
versed, likewise  remembered  the  poet,  and  spoke  of  him 
with  affectionate  respect.  "  My  sister,  when  she  was  a 
child,"  he  said,  *'  was  often  at  Moore's  house,  and  he 
was  fond  of  her.  Yes,  his  name  is  widely  remembered 
and  honoured  here.  But  I  think  that  many  of  the 
people  hereabout,  the  farmers,  admired  him  chiefly  be- 
cause they  thought  that  he  wrote  Moore's  Almanac. 
They  used  to  say  to  him  :  '  Mister  Moore,  please  tell  us 
what  the  weather's  going  to  be.'  " 

From  Devizes  to  the  village  of  Bromham,  a  distance 
of  about  four  miles,  the  walk  is  delightful.  Much  of 
the  path  is  between  green  hedges  and  is  embowered  by 
elms.  The  exit  from  the  town  is  by  Northgate  and 
along  the  Chippenham  road  —  which,  like  all  the  roads 
in  this  neighbourhood,  is  smooth,  hard,  and  white.  A 
little  way  out  of  Devizes,  going  northwest,  this  road 
makes  a  deep  cut  in  the  chalk-stone  and  so  winds  down- 
hill into  the  level  plain.  At  intervals  you  come  upon 
sweetly  pretty  specimens  of  the  English  thatch-roof 
cottage.  Hay-fields,  pastures,  and  market-gardens  ex- 
tend on  every  hand.  Eastward,  far  off,  are  visible 
the  hills  of  VVestbury,  upon  which,  here  and  there,  the 


78  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


copses  are  lovely,  and  upon  one  of  which,  cut  in  the 
turf,  is  the  figure  of  a  colossal  white  horse,  said  to 
have  been  put  there  by  the  Saxons,  to  commemorate 
a  victory  by  King  Alfred. ^  Soon  the  road  winds  over  a 
hill  and  you  pass  through  the  little  red  village  of 
Rowde,  with  its  gray  church  tower.  The  walk  may  be 
shortened  by  a  cut  across  the  fields,  and  this  indeed  is 
found  the  prettiest  part  of  the  journey, — for  now  the 
path  lies  through  gardens,  and  through  the  centre  or 
along  the  margin  of  the  wheat,  which  waves  in  the 
strong  wind  and  sparkles  in  the  bright  sunshine  and  is 
everywhere  tenderly  touched  with  the  scarlet  of  the 
poppy  and  with  hues  of  other  wild-flowers,  making  you 
think  of  Shakespeare's 

"  Crowned  with  rank  fumiter  and  furrow  weeds, 
With  hemlock,  harlock,  nettles,  cuckoo-flowers, 
Darnel,  and  all  the  idle  weeds  that  grow 
In  our  sustaining  corn." 

There  is  one  field  through  which  I  passed,  just  as  the 
spire  of  Bromham  church  came  into  view,  in  which 
a  surface  more  than  three  hundred  yards  square  was 
blazing  with  wild-flowers,  white  and  gold  and  crimson 
and  purple  and  blue,  upon  a  plain  of  vivid  green,  so  that 
to  look  upon  it  was  almost  to  be  dazzled,  while  the  air 
that  floated  over  it  was  scented  as  if  with  honeysuckle. 
You  may  see  the  delicate  spire  and  the  low  gray  tower 

1  The  White  Horse  upon  the  side  of  the  hill  at  Westbury  was  made  by 
removing  the  turf  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  the  white  chalk  beneath,  in 
the  shape  of  a  horse.  The  tradition  is  that  this  was  done  by  command 
of  Alfred,  in  Easter  week,  A.D.  878,  to  signalise  his  victory  over  the  Danes, 
at  Oetlandune,  or  Eddington,  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Upon  the  top  of 
that  hill  there  is  the  outline  of  an  ancient  Roman  camp. 


IV  THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE 


79 


of  Moore's  church  some  time  before  you  come  to  it,  and 
in  some  respects  the  prospect  is  not  unHke  that  of 
Shakespeare's  church  at  Stratford.  A  sweeter  spot  for 
a  poet's  sepulchre  it  would  be  hard  to  find.  No  spot 
could  be  more  harmonious  than  this  one  is  with  the 
gentle,  romantic  spirit  of  Moore's  poetry,  and  with  the 
purity,  refinement,  and  serenity  of  his  life.  Bromham  vil- 
lage consists  of  a  few  red  brick  buildings,  scattered  along 
a  few  irregular  little  lanes,  on  a  ridge  overlooking  a 
valley.  Amid  those  humble  homes  stands  the  gray 
church,  like  a  shepherd  keeping  his  flock.  A  part  of  it 
is  very  old,  and  all  of  it,  richly  weather-stained  and  deli- 
cately browned  with  fading  moss,  is  beautiful.  Upon 
the  tower  and  along  the  south  side  the  fantastic  gar- 
goyles are  much  decayed.  The  building  is  a  cross. 
The  chancel  window  faces  eastward,  and  the  window  at 
the  end  of  the  nave  looks  toward  the  west,  —  the  latter 
being  a  memorial  to  Moore.  At  the  southeast  corner 
of  the  building  is  the  lady  chapel,  belonging  to  the 
Bayntun  family,  in  which  are  suspended  various  frag- 
ments of  old  armour,  and  in  the  centre  of  which,  recum- 
bent on  a  great  dark  tomb,  is  a  grim-visaged  knight, 
clad  from  top  to  toe  in  his  mail,  beautifully  sculptured 
in  marble  that  looks  like  yellow  ivory.  Vandal  visitors 
have  disgracefully  marred  this  superb  work,  by  cutting 
and  scratching  their  names  upon  it.  Other  tombs  are 
adjacent,  with  inscriptions  that  implicate  the  names  of 
Sir  Edward  Bayntun,  1679,  ^^'^  Lady  Anne  Wilmot, 
elder  daughter  and  co-heiress  of  John,  Earl  of  Roches- 
ter, who  successively  was  the  wife  of  Henry  Bayntun 
and  Francis  Greville,  and  who  died  in  1703.  The  win- 
dow at  the  end  of  the  nave  is  a  simple  but  striking  com- 


8o  GRAY  DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

position,  in  stained  glass,  richer  and  nobler  than  is 
commonly  seen  in  a  country  church.  It  consists  of 
twenty-one  lights,  of  which  five  are  lancet  shafts,  side 
by  side,  these  being  surmounted  with  smaller  lancets, 
forming  a  cluster  at  the  top  of  the  arch.  In  the  centre 
is  the  figure  of  Jesus  and  around  Him  are  the  Apostles. 
The  colouring  is  soft,  true,  and  beautiful.  Across  the 
base  of  the  window  appear  the  words,  in  the  glass  : 
"This  window  is  placed  in  this  church  by  the  combined 
subscriptions  of  two  hundred  persons  who  honour  the 
memor}'  of  the  poet  of  all  circles  and  the  idol  of  his  own, 
Thomas  Moore."  It  was  beneath  this  window,  in  a 
little  pew  in  the  corner  of  the  church,  that  the  present 
writer  joined  in  the  service,  and  meditated,  throughout 
a  long  sermon,  on  the  lovely  life  and  character  and  the 
gentle,  noble,  and  abiding  influence  of  the  poet  whose 
hallowed  grave  and  beloved  memor}'  make  this  place  a 
perpetual  shrine. 

IMoore  was  buried  in  the  churchyard.  An  iron  fence 
encloses  his  tomb,  which  is  at  the  base  of  the  church 
tower,  in  an  angle  formed  by  the  tower  and  the  chancel, 
on  the  north  side  of  the  building.  Not  more  than  twenty 
tombs  are  visible  on  this  side  of  the  church,  and  these 
appear  upon  a  level  lawn,  as  green  and  sparkling  as 
an  emerald  and  as  soft  as  velvet.  On  three  sides  the 
churchyard  is  enclosed  by  a  low  wall,  and  on  the  fourth 
by  a  dense  hedge  of  glistening  holly.  Great  trees  are 
all  around  the  church,  but  not  too  near.  A  massive 
yew  stands  darkly  at  one  corner.  Chestnuts  and  elms 
blend  their  branches  in  fraternal  embrace.  Close  by 
the  poet's  grave  a  vast  beech  uprears  its  dome  of 
fruited   boughs   and    rustling    foliage.      The    sky   was 


IV  THE   HAUNTS   OF   MOORE  8 1 

blue,  except  for  a  few  straggling  masses  of  fleecy, 
slate-coloured  cloud.  Not  a  human  creature  was  any- 
where to  be  seen  while  I  stood  in  this  sacred  spot,  and 
no  sound  disturbed  the  Sabbath  stillness,  save  the  faint 
whisper  of  the  wind  in  the  lofty  tree-tops  and  the  low 
twitter  of  birds  in  their  hidden  nests.  I  thought  of  his 
long  life,  unblemished  by  personal  fault  or  public  error  ; 
of  his  sweet  devotion  to  parents  and  wife  and  children  ; 
of  his  pure  patriotism,  which  scorned  equally  the  bla- 
tant fustian  of  the  demagogue  and  the  frenzy  of  the 
revolutionist;  of  his  unsurpassed  fidelity  in  friendship; 
of  his  simplicity  and  purity  in  a  corrupt  time  and  amid 
many  temptations ;  of  his  meekness  in  affliction  ;  of  the 
devout  spirit  that  prompted  his  earnest  exhortation  to 
his  wife,  "  Lean  upon  God,  Bessie  "  ;  of  the  many  beauti- 
ful songs  that  he  added  to  our  literature, — everyone 
of  which  is  the  melodious  and  final  expression  of  one 
or  another  of  the  elemental  feelings  of  human  nature  ; 
and  of  the  obligation  of  endless  gratitude  that  the  world 
owes  to  his  fine,  high,  and  beneficent  genius.  And  thus 
it  seemed  good  to  be  in  this  place  and  to  lay  with  rev- 
erent hands  the  white  roses  of  honour  and  affection 
upon  his  tomb. 

On  the  long,  low,  flat  stone  that  covers  the  poet's 
dust  are  inscribed  the  following  words  :  "  Anastatia 
Mary  Moore.  Born  March  i6,  1813.  Died  March  8, 
1829.  Also  her  brother,  John  Russell  Moore,  who  died 
November  23,  1842,  aged  19  years.  Also  their  father, 
Thomas  Moore,  tenderly  beloved  by  all  who  knew  the 
goodness  of  his  heart.  The  Poet  and  Patriot  of  his 
Country,  Ireland.  Born  May  28,  1779.  Sank  to  rest 
February   26,    1852.     Aged    72.     God    is    Love.     Also 


82  GRAY  DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

his  wife,  Bessie  Moore,  who  died  4th  September  1865. 
And  to  the  memory  of  their  dear  son,  Thomas  Lans- 
downe  Parr  Moore.  Born  24th  October  18 18.  Died  in 
Africa,  January  1846."  Moore's  daughter,  Barbara,  is 
buried  at  Hornsey,  near  London,  in  the  same  church- 
yard where  rests  the  poet  Samuel  Rogers.  On  the  stone 
that  marks  that  spot  is  written,  "  Anne  Jane  Barbara 
Moore.  Born  January  the  4th,  18 12.  Died  September 
the  i8th,  1817." 

Northwest  from  Bromham  church  ^  and  about  one  mile 
away  stands  Sloperton  Cottage,^  the  last  home  of  the 
poet  and  the  house  in  which  he  died.  A  deep  valley 
intervenes  between  the  church  and  the  cottage,  but,  as 
each  is  built  upon  a  ridge,  you  may  readily  see  the  one 
from  the  other.  There  is  a  road  across  the  valley,  but 
the  more  pleasant  walk  is  along  a  pathway  through  the 
meadows  and  over  several  stiles,  ending  almost  in  front 
of  the  storied  house.  It  is  an  ideal  home  for  a  poet. 
The  building  is  made  of  brick,  but  it  is  so  completely 
enwrapped  in  ivy  that  scarcely  a  particle  of  its  surface 
can  be  seen.  It  is  a  low  building,  with  three  gables  on 
its  main  front  and  with  a  wing ;  it  stands  in  the  middle 
of  a  garden  enclosed  by  walls  and  by  hedges  of  ivy ; 
and  it  is  embowered  by  great  trees,  yet  not  so  closely 
embowered  as  to  be  shorn  of  the  prospect  from  its 
windows.     Flowers  and  flowering  vines  were  blooming 

1  The  curfew  bell  is  rung  at  Bromham  church,  at  eight  o'clock  'n  the 
evening,  on  week  days,  from  Michaelmas  to  Lady  Day,  and  at  the  same 
hour  on  every  Sunday  throughout  the  year;  and  on  Shrove  Tuesd>^v  the 
bell  is  rung  at  one  o'clock  in  the  day. 

2  Sloperton  Cottage  is  now,  1896,  the  property  of  H.  H.  Ludlow  Bur- 
gess, of  Seend. 


IV 


THE    HAUNTS    OF    MOORE  83 


around  it.  The  hard,  white  road,  flowing  past  its  gate- 
way, looked  Hke  a  thread  of  silver  between  the  green 
hedgerows  whicli  here  for  many  miles  are  rooted  in 
high,  grassy  banks,  and  at  intervals  are  diversified  with 
large  trees.  Sloperton  Cottage  is  almost  alone,  but 
there  are  a  few  neighbours,  and  there  is  the  little 
rustic  village  of  Westbrook,  about  half  a  mile  west- 
ward. Westward  was  the  poet's  favourite  prospect. 
He  loved  the  sunset,  and  from  a  terrace  in  his  garden 
he  habitually  watched  the  pageant  of  the  dying  day. 
Here,  for  thirty-five  years,  was  his  peaceful  and  happy 
home.  Here  he  meditated  many  of  those  gems  of 
lyrical  poetry  that  will  live  in  the  hearts  of  men  as 
long  as  anything  lives  that  ever  was  written  by  mor- 
tal hand.  And  here  he  "sank  to  rest,"  worn  out  at 
last  by  incessant  labour  and  by  many  sorrows,  —  the 
bitter  fruit  of  domestic  bereavement  and  of  disappoint- 
ment. The  sun  was  sinking  as  I  turned  away  from  this 
hallowed  haunt  of  genius  and  virtue,  and,  through  green 
pastures  and  flower-spangled  fields  of  waving  grain,  set 
forth  upon  my  homeward  walk.  Soon  there  was  a 
lovely  peal  of  chimes  from  Bromham  church  tower, 
answered  far  off  by  the  bells  of  Rowde,  and  while  I 
descended  into  the  darkening  valley,  Moore's  tender 
words  came  singing  through  my  thought : 

''And  so  'twill  be  when  I  am  gone  — 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on, 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells !  " 


CHAPTER   V 


THE    BEAUTIFUL    CITY    OF    BATH 


UGUST  21,  1888.— From  Devizes  the 
traveller  naturally  turns  toward  Bath, 
which  is  only  a  few  miles  distant.  A 
beautiful  city,  marred  somewhat  by  the 
feverish,  disturbing  spirit  of  the  present 
day,  this  old  place  [so  old  that  in  it 
the  Saxon  King  Edgar  was  crowned,  a.d.  973]  nev- 
ertheless retains  many  interesting  characteristics  of 
its  former  glory.  More  than  a  century  has  passed 
since  the  wigged,  powdered,  and  jewelled  days  of  Beau 
Nash.  The  Avon,  —  for  there  is  another  Avon  here, 
distinct  from  that  of  Warwickshire  and  also  from  that 
of  Yorkshire,  —  is  spanned  by  bridges  that  Smollett 
never  dreamt  of  and  Sheridan  never  saw.  The  town 
has  crept  upward,  along  both  the  valley  slopes,  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  hill-tops  that  used  to  look  down  upon 
it.  Along  the  margins  of  the  river  many  gray,  stone 
structures  are  mouldering  in  neglect  and  decay ;  but 
a  tramcar  rattles  through  the  principal  street ;  the  boot- 
black and  the  newsvender  are  active  and  vociferous; 
the  causeways    are    crowded   with    a   bustling   throng, 

84 


=5 


E^ 


86 


GRAY   DAYS   AND    GOLD 


CHAP. 


and  carts  and  carriages  dash  and  scramble  over  the 
pavement,  while,  where  of  old  the  horn  used  to  sound 
a  gay  flourish  and  the  coach  to  come  spinning  in  from 
London,  now  is  heard  the  shriek  and  clangour  of  the 
steam-engine  dashing  down  the  vale,  with  morning 
papers  and  with  passengers,  three  hours  from  the  town. 
This,  indeed,  is  not  "the  season"  and  of  late  it  has 
rained  with  zealous  persistence,  so  that  Bath  is  not  in 
her  splendour.     Much    however  can  be   seen,  and  the 

essential  fact  that 
she  is  no  longer 
the  Gainsborough 
belle  that  she  used 
to  be  is  distinctly 
evident.  You  must 
yield  your  mind  to 
fancy  if  you  would 
conjure  up,  while 
walking  in  these 
modern  streets, 
the  gay  and  quaint 
things  described  in 
HumpJir'ey  Clinker 
or  indicated  in  The  Rivals.  The  Bath  chairs,  sometimes 
pulled  by  donkeys,  and  sometimes  trundled  by  men,  are 
among  the  most  representative  relics  now  to  be  seen. 
Next  to  the  theatre  [where  it  was  my  privilege  to  enjoy 
and  admire  Mr.  John  L.  Toole's  quaint  and  richly  hu- 
morous performance  of  The  Don~],  stands  a  building,  at 
the  foot  of  Gascoigne  place,  before  which  the  traveller 
pauses  with  interest,  because  upon  its  front  he  may 
read    the    legend,  neatly  engraved  on  a  white    marble 


■"  V...O  ' 

Beazi  Nash. 


V  THE   BEAUTIFUL   CITY   OF   BATH  8/ 

slab,  that  "  In  this  house  Hved  the  celebrated  Beau 
Nash,  and  here  he  died,  February  1761."  It  is  an  odd 
structure,  consisting  of  two  stories  and  an  attic,  the 
front  being  of  the  monotonous  stucco  that  came  in  with 
the  Regent.  Earlier  no  doubt  the  building  was  timbered. 
There  are  eleven  windows  in  the  front,  four  of  them  being 
painted  on  the  wall.  The  house  is  used  now  by  an  auc- 
tioneer. In  the  historic  Pump  Room,  dating  back  to 
1797,  raised  aloft  in  an  alcove  at  the  east  end,  still 
stands  the  effigy  of  the  Beau,  even  as  it  stood  in  the 
days  when  he  set  the  fashions,  regulated  the  customs, 
and  gave  the  laws,  and  was  the  King  of  Bath  ;  but  the 
busts  of  Newton  and  Pope  that  formerly  stood  on  either 
side  of  this  statue  stand  there  no  more,  save  in  the 
fancy  of  those  who  recall  the  epigram  which  was  sug- 
gested by  that  singular  group  : 

"  This  statue  placed  these  busts  between 
Gives  satire  all  its  strength  ; 
Wisdom  and  Wit  are  little  seen, 
But  Folly  at  full  length." 

Folly,  though,  is  a  word  that  carries  a  different  mean- 
ing to  different  ears.  Douglas  Jerrold  made  a  play  on 
the  subject  of  Beau  Nash,  an  ingenious,  effective,  brill- 
iantly written  play,  in  which  he  is  depicted  as  anything 
but  foolish.  Much  always  depends  on  the  point  of 
view. 

Quin  [1693-1766]  was  buried  in  Bath  Abbey,  and 
Bath  is  the  scene  of  The  Rivals.  It  would  be  pleasant 
to  fancy  the  trim  figure  of  the  elegant  Sir  Lucius 
O'Trigger  strolling  along  the  parade ;  or  bluff  and  chol- 
eric Sir  Anthony  Absolute  gazing  with  imperious  conde- 


CHAP.  V  THE   BEAUTIFUL   CITY   OF   BATH  89 

scension  upon  the  galaxy  of  the  Pump  Room;  Acres 
in  his  absurd  finery ;  Lydia  with  her  sentimental  novels ; 
and  Mrs.  Malaprop,  rigid  with  decorum,  in  her  Bath 
chair.  The  Abbey,  begun  in  1405  and  completed  in 
1606,  has  a  noble  west  front  and  a  magnificent  door  of 
carved  oak,  and  certainly  it  is  a  superb  church ;  but  the 
eyes  that  have  rested  upon  such  cathedrals  as  those 
of  Lincoln,  Durham,  Edinburgh,  and  Glasgow,  such  a 
heavenly  jewel  as  Roslin,  and  such  an  astounding  and 
overwhelming  edifice  as  York  minster,  can  dwell  calmly 
on  Bath  Abbey.  A  surprising  feature  in  it  is  its  mural 
record  of  the  dead  that  are  entombed  beneath  or  around 
it.  Sir  Lucius  might  well  declare  that  "There  is  snug 
lying  in  the  Abbey."  Almost  every  foot  of  the  walls 
is  covered  with  monumental  slabs,  and  like  Captain 
Cuttle,  after  the  wedding  of  Mr.  Dombey  and  Edith 
Granger,  I  "  pervaded  the  body  of  the  church"  and  read 
the  epitaphs,  —  solicitous  to  discover  that  of  the  re- 
nowned actor  James  Quin.  His  tablet  was  formerly  to 
be  found  in  the  chancel,  but  now  it  is  obscurely  placed 
in  a  porch,  on  the  north  corner  of  the  building,  on  what 
may  be  termed  the  outer  wall  of  the  sanctuary.  It  pre- 
sents the  face  of  the  famous  comedian,  carved  in  white 
marble  and  set  against  a  black  slab.  Beneath  is  the 
date  of  his  death,  "  Ob.  mdcclxvi.  yEtat.  lxxiii.,"  and 
his  epitaph,  written  by  David  Garrick.  At  the  base 
are  dramatic  emblems,  —  the  mask  and  the  dagger.  As  a 
portrait  this  medallion  of  Quin  gives  convincing  evidence 
of  scrupulous  fidelity  to  nature,  and  certainly  it  is  a  fine 
work  of  art.  The  head  is  dressed  as  it  was  in  life,  with 
the  full  wig  of  the  period.  The  features  are  delicately 
cut  and  are  indicative  of  austere  beauty  of  countenance, 


go  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

impressive  if  not  attractive.  The  mouth  is  especially- 
handsome,  the  upper  lip  being  a  perfect  Cupid's  bow. 
The  face  is  serious,  expressive,  and  fraught  with  intel- 
lect and  power.  This  was  the  last  great  declaimer  of 
the  old  school  of  acting,  discomfited  and  almost  obliter- 
ated by  Garrick ;  and  here  are  the  words  that  Garrick 
wrote  upon  his  tomb  : 

"  That  tongue  which  set  the  table  on  a  roar 
And  charmed  the  public  ear  is  heard  no  more ; 
Closed  are  those  eyes,  the  harbingers  of  wit, 
Which  spoke,  before  the  tongue,  what  Shakespeare  writ ; 
Cold  is  that  hand  which,  living,  was  stretched  forth, 
At  friendship's  call,  to  succour  modest  worth. 
Here  lies  JAMES  QUIN.    Deign,  reader,  to  be  taught 
Whatever  thy  strength  of  body,  force  of  thought, 
In  nature's  happiest  mould  however  cast. 
To  this  complexion  thou  must  come  at  last." 

A  printed  reminder  of  mortality  is  superfluous  in  Bath, 
for  you  almost  continually  behold  afflicted  and  deformed 
persons  who  have  come  here  to  "  take  the  waters."  For 
rheumatic  sufferers  this  place  is  a  paradise,  —  as,  indeed, 
it  is  for  all  wealthy  persons  who  love  luxury.  Walter 
Savage  Landor  said  that  the  only  two  cities  of  Europe 
in  which  he  could  live  were  Bath  and  Florence  ;  but  that 
was  long  ago.  When  you  have  walked  in  Milsom  street 
and  Lansdowne  Crescent,  sailed  upon  the  Avon,  ob- 
served the  Abbey,  without  and  within,  —  for  its  dusky, 
weather-stained  walls  are  extremely  picturesque,  —  at- 
tended the  theatre,  climbed  the  hills  for  the  view  of  the 
city  and  the  Avon  valley,  and  taken  the  baths,  you  will 
have  had  a  satisfying  experience  of  Bath.  The  greatest 
luxury  in  the  place  is  a  swimming-tank  of  mineral  water, 


i 


THE   BEAUTIFUL   CITY   OF  BATH 


91 


about  forty  feet  long,  by  twenty  broad,  and  five  feet 
deep,  —  a  tepid  pool  of  most  refreshing  potency.  And 
the  chief  curiosity  is  the  ruin  of  a  Roman  bath  which 
was  discovered  and  laid  bare  in  1885.  This  is  built  in 
the  form  of  a  rectangular  basin  of   stone,  with  steps 


High  Street  —  Bath. 


around  it,  and  originally  it  was  environed  with  stone 
chambers  that  were  used  as  dressing-rooms.  The  ba- 
sin is  nearly  perfect.  The  work  of  restoration  of  this 
ancient  bath  is  in  progress,  but  the  relic  will  be  pre- 
served only  as  an  emblem  of  the  past. 

Thomas  Haynes  Bayly,  the  song-writer,   1 797-1839, 


92 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


was  born  in  Bath,  and  there  he  melodiously  recorded 
that  "  She  wore  a  wreath  of  roses,"  and  there  he 
dreamed  of  dwelling  "in  marble  halls."  But  Bath 
is  not  nearly  as  rich  in  literary  associations  as  its 
neighbour  city  of  Bristol.  Chatterton,  Southey,  Han- 
nah More,  and  Mary  Robinson,  —  the  actress,  the 
lovely  and  unfortunate  "Perdita,"^ — were  born  in  Bris- 
tol. Richard  Savage,  the  poet,  died  there  [1743],  and 
so  did  John  Hippesley,  the  comedian,  manager,  and 
farce-writer  [1748].     St.  Mary  Redely ffe  church,  built 


A  Fragment  fi  out  an   Old  Roman  Bath. 

in  1292,  is  still  standing  there,  of  which  Chatterton's 
father  was  the  sexton,  and  in  the  tower  of  which  "  the 
marvellous  boy"  discovered,  according  to  his  ingenious 
plan  of  literary  imposture,  the  original  Canynge  and 
Rowley  manuscripts.  The  ancient  chests,  which  once 
were  filled  with  black-letter  parchments,  remain  in  a  loft 
in  the  church  tower,  but  they  are  empty  now.  That 
famous  preacher,  the  Rev.  Robert  Hall  [i 764-1 831], 
had  a  church  in  Bristol.  Southey  and  Coleridge  mar- 
ried sisters,  of  the  name  of  Fricker,  who  resided  there, 


THE   BEAUTIFUL   CITY   OF  BATH 


93 


and  a  house  called  Myrtle  Cottage,  once  occupied  by 
Coleridge  is  still  extant,  in  the  contiguous  village  of 
Clevedon,  —  one  of  the  loveliest  places  on  the  English 
coast.  Jane  Porter  and  Anna  Maria  Porter  lived  in 
Bristol,  and  Maria  died  at  Montpelier,  near  by.  These 
references  indicate  but  a  tithe  of  what  may  be  seen, 
studied,  and  enjoyed  in  and  about  Bristol,  —  the  city  to 
which  Chatterton  left  his  curse  ;  the  region  hallowed  by 
the  dust  of  Arthur  Hallam,  —  inspiration  of  Tennyson's 
/;/  Memoriam,  the  loftiest  poem  that  has  been  created  in 
the  English  language  since  the  pen  that  wrote  CJiilde 
Harold  fell  from  the  magical  hand  of  Byron. 


Remains  of  The   Old  Roman  Bath. 


CHAPTER   VI 


THE    LAND    OF    WORDSWORTH 

GOOD  way  by  which  to  enter  the  Lake 
District  of  England  is  to  travel  to  Penrith 
and  thence  to  drive  along  the  shore  of 
U  lis  water,  or  sail  upon  its  crystal  bosom, 
to  the  blooming  solitude  of  Patterdale. 
Penrith  lies  at  the  eastern  slope  of  the  mountains  of 
Westmoreland,  and  you  may  see  the  ruins  of  Penrith 
Castle,  once  the  property  and  the  abode  of  Richard, 
Duke  of  Gloucester,  before  he  became  King  of  England. 
Penrith  Castle  was  one  of  the  estates  that  were  forfeited 
by  the  great  Earl  of  Warwick,  and  King  Edward  the 
Fourth  gave  it  to  his  brother  Richard,  in  1471.  It  is 
recorded  that  Richard  had  lived  there  for  five  years, 
from  1452  to  1457,  when  he  was  Sheriff  of  Cumberland. 
Not  much  remains  of  that  ancient  structure,  and  the 
remnant  is  now  occupied  by  a  florist.  I  saw  it,  as  I 
saw  almost  everything  else  in  Great  Britain  during  the 
summer  of  1888,  under  a  tempest  of  rain;  for  it  rained 
there,  with  a  continuity  almost  ruinous,  from  the  time 
of   the  lilac   and    apple-blossom  till  when  the  clematis 

94 


V  • 


WORDSWORTH 


->y  which  to  enter  the  Lake 

HJY8A0  WfljA^stp  travel  to  Penrith 

ana    luciv,  u  '  ^'>^g    the   shore  of 

Ullswater,  or  bu..  ^  '  -.  crystal  bosom, 


to   the   blooming   s^ 
...;th  lies  at  the  eastern  slope  ol 

n  n  r'l    \- 


^"    "'^  *^crdale. 
..,    ........ lectins  of 

Westmorrlnnrl,  nnr'^  ynu  nmv  see  the  ruins  of  Penrith 
Castle.  I   the   abode  of   Richard, 

Duk  lime  King  of  England. 

Penrith  >l  the  estates  that  were  forfeited 

by  the  ;  of  Warwick,  and  King  Edward  the 

Fourth  gave  it  to  his  brother  Richard,  in  147 1.  It  is 
recorded  that  Richard  had  lived  there  for  five  years, 
from  1452  to  1457,  when  he  was  Sheriff  of  Cumberland. 
Nor  much  remains  of  that  ancient  structure,  and  the 
i'.Mrinant  is  now  occupied  by        ^  '   saw' it,  as  I 

saw  almost  everything  else  r  a  during  the 

summer  of   1888,  under  a  t  ....u  ,  for  it  rained 

there,  with  a  continuitv  a!...     .   lous,  from  the  time 

of    the  li]nc   and    annle-blnssom   till   when  the  clematis 


96  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


began  to  show  the  splendour  of  its  purple  shield  and  the 
acacia  to  drop  its  milky  blossoms  on  the  autumnal  grass. 
But  travellers  must  not  heed  the  weather.  If  there  are 
dark  days  there  are  also  bright  ones,  —  and  one  bright 
day  in  such  a  paradise  as  the  English  Lakes  atones  for 
the  dreariness  of  a  month  of  rain.  Besides,  even  the 
darkest  days  may  be  brightened  by  gentle  companion- 
ship. Henry  Irving^  and  Ernest  Bendall,  two  of  the 
most  intellectual  and  genial  men  in  England,  were  my 
associates,  in  that  expedition.  We  went  from  London 
into  Westmoreland  on  a  mild,  sweet  day  in  July,  and 
we  rambled  for  several  days  in  that  enchanted  region. 
It  was  a  delicious  experience,  and  I  often  close  my  eyes 
and  dream  of  it  —  as  I  am  dreaming  now. 

In  the  drive  between  Penrith  and  Patterdale  you  see 
many  things  that  are  worthy  of  regard.  Among  these 
are  the  parish  church  of  Penrith,  a  building  made  of 
red  stone,  remarkable  for  a  massive  square  tower  of 
great  age  and  formidable  aspect.  In  the  adjacent 
churchyard  are  The  Giant's  Grave  and  The  Giant's 
Thumb,  relics  of  a  distant  past  that  strongly  and 
strangely  affect  the  imagination.  The  grave  is  said  to 
be  that  of  Ewain  Cassarius,^  a  gigantic  individual  who 
reigned  over  Cumberland  in  remote  Saxon  times.  The 
Thumb  is  a  rough  stone,  about  seven  feet  high,  present- 
ing a  clumsy  cross,  and  doubtless  commemorative  of 
another  mighty  warrior.     Sir  Walter    Scott,  who  trav- 

^  The  famous  actor  was  knighted,  by  Queen  Victoria,  in  1895,  '^"'^ 
became  Sir  Henry  Irving. 

2  "  In  our  stage  to  Penrith  I  introduced  Anne  to  the  ancient  Petreia, 
called  Old  Penrith,  and  also  to  the  grave  of  Sir  Ewain  Csesarius,  that  knight 
with  the  puzzling  name,  which  has  got  more  indistinct."  — Journal  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  Vol.  II.,  p.  151. 


VI  THE   LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH  97 

ersed  Penrith  on  his  journeys  between  Edinburgh  and 
London,  seldom  omitted  to  pause  for  a  view  of  those 
singular  memorials,  and  Scott,  like  Wordsworth,  has 
left  upon  this  region  the  abiding  impress  of  his  splendid 
genius.  Ulfo's  Lake  is  Scott's  name  for  Ullswater,  and 
thereabout  is  laid  the  scene  of  his  poem  of  The  Bridal 
of  Tricrmaiji.  In  Scott's  day  the  traveller  went  by 
coach  or  on  horseback,  but  now,  "  By  lonely  Threlkeld's 
waste  and  wood,"  at  the  foot  of  craggy  Blencathara, 
you  pause  at  a  railway  station  having  Threlkeld  in 
large  letters  on  its  official  signboard.  Another  strange 
thing  that  is  passed  on  the  road  between  Penrith  and 
Patterdale  is  "Arthur's  Round  Table,"  —  a  circular  ter- 
race of  turf  slightly  raised  above  the  surrounding  level, 
and  certainly  remarkable,  whatever  may  be  its  historic 
or  antiquarian  merit,  for  fine  texture,  symmetrical  form, 
and  lovely,  luxuriant  colour.  Scholars  think  it  was 
used  for  tournaments  in  the  days  of  chivalry,  but  no 
one  rightly  knows  anything  about  it,  save  that  it  is  old. 
Not  far  from  this  bit  of  mysterious  antiquity  the  road 
winds  through  a  quaint  village  called  Tirril,  where,  in 
the  Quaker  burial-ground,  is  the  grave  of  an  unfortu- 
nate young  man,  Charles  Gough,  who  lost  his  hfe  by 
falling  from  the  Striding  Edge  of  Helvellyn  in  1805, 
and  whose  memory  is  hallowed  by  Wordsworth  and 
Scott,  in  poems  that  almost  every  schoolboy  has  read, 
and  could  never  forget,  —  associated  as  they  are  with 
the  story  of  the  faithful  dog,  for  three  months  in  that 
lonesome  wilderness  vigilant  beside  the  dead  body  of 
his  master, 

"A  lofty  precipice  in  front, 
A  silent  tarn  below." 


98  GRAY   DAYS   AND    GOLD  chap. 

Patterdale  possesses  this  advantage  over  certain  other 
towns  and  hamlets  of  the  lake  region,  that  it  is  not 
much  frequented  by  tourists.  The  coach  does  indeed 
roll  through  it  at  intervals,  laden  with  those  miscellane- 
ous, desultory  visitors  whose  pleasure  it  is  to  rush  wildly 
over  the  land.  And  those  objects  serve  to  remind  you 
that  now,  even  as  in  Wordsworth's  time,  and  in  a  double 
sense,  "  the  world  is  too  much  with  us."  But  an  old- 
fashioned  inn,  Kidd's  Hotel,  still  exists,  at  the  head  of 
Ullswater,  to  which  fashion  has  not  resorted  and  where 
kindness  presides  over  the  traveller's  comfort.  Close 
by  also  is  a  cosy  nook  called  Glenridding,  where,  if  you 
are  a  lover  of  solitude  and  peace,  you  may  find  an  ideal 
abode.  One  house  wherein  lodging  may  be  obtained 
was  literally  embowered  in  roses  on  that  summer  even- 
ing when  first  I  strolled  by  the  fragrant  hay-fields  on 
the  Patterdale  shore  of  Ullswater.  The  rose  flourishes 
in  wonderful  luxuriance  and  profusion  throughout  West- 
moreland and  Cumberland.  As  you  drive  along  the 
lonely  roads  your  way  will  sometimes  be,  for  many 
miles,  between  hedges  that  are  bespangled  with  wild 
roses  and  with  the  silver  globes  of  the  laurel  blossom, 
while  around  you  the  lonely  mountains,  bare  of  foliage 
save  for  matted  grass  and  a  dense  growth  of  low  ferns, 
tower  to  meet  the  clouds.  It  is  a  wild  place,  and  yet 
there  is  a  pervading  spirit  of  refinement  over  it  all,  — 
as  if  Nature  had  here  wrought  her  wonders  in  the  mood 
of  the  finest  art.  And  at  the  same  time  it  is  a  place 
of  infinite  variety.  The  whole  territory  occupied  by 
the  lakes  and  mountains  of  this  famous  district  is 
scarcely  more  than  thirty  miles  square  ;  yet  within  this 
limit,  comparatively  narrow,  are  comprised  all  possible 


i 


VI  THE   LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH  99 

beauties  of  land  and  water  that  the  most  passionate 
worshipper  of  natural  loveliness  could  desire. 

My  first  night  in  Patterdale  was  one  of  such  tempest 
as  sometimes  rages  in  America  about  the  time  of  the 
fall  equinox.  The  wind  shook  the  building.  It  was 
long  after  midnight  when  I  went  to  rest,  and  the  storm 
seemed  to  increase  in  fury  as  the  night  wore  on.  Tor- 
rents of  rain  were  dashed  against  the  windows.  Great 
trees  near  by  creaked  and  groaned  beneath  the  strength 
of  the  gale.  The  cold  was  so  severe  that  blankets 
were  welcome.  It  was  my  first  night  in  Wordsworth's 
country,  and  I  thought  of  Wordsworth's  lines  : 

"  There  was  a  roaring  in  the  wind  all  night ; 
The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods." 

The  next  morning  was  sweet  with  sunshine  and  gay 
with  birds  and  flowers,  and  all  semblance  of  storm  and 
trouble  seemed  banished  forever. 

'•'  But  now  the  sun  is  shining  calm  and  bright, 
And  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods." 

Wordsworth's  poetry  expresses  the  inmost  soul  of 
those  lovely  lakes  and  mighty  hills,  and  no  writer  can 
hope  to  tread,  save  remotely  and  with  reverent  humility, 
in  the  footsteps  of  that  magician.  You  understand 
Wordsworth  better,  however,  and  you  love  him  more 
dearly,  for  having  rambled  over  his  consecrated  ground. 
There  was  not  a  day  when  I  did  not,  in  some  shape 
or  another,  meet  with  his  presence.  Whenever  I  was 
alone  his  influence  came  upon  me  as  something  unspeak- 
ably majestic  and  solemn.     Once,  on  a  Sunday,  I  climbed 


lOO  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

to  the  top  of  Place  FelP  [which  is  2154  feet  above  the 
sea-level,  while  Scawfell  Pike  is  3210,  and  Helvellyn  is 
31 18],  and  there,  in  the  short  space  of  two  hours,  I  was 
thrice  cut  off  by  rainstorms  from  all  view  of  the  world 
beneath.  Not  a  tree  could  I  find  on  that  mountain-top, 
nor  any  place  of  shelter  from  the  blast  and  the  rain, 
except  when  crouching  beside  the  mound  of  rock  at  its 
summit,  which  in  that  country  they  call  a  "  man."  Not 
a  living  creature  was  visible,  save  now  and  then  a  lonely 
sheep,  who  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  and  then  scurried 
away.  But  when  the  skies  cleared  and  the  cloudy 
squadrons  of  the  storm  went  careering  over  Helvellyn, 
I  looked  down  into  no  less  than  fifteen  valleys  beauti- 
fully coloured  by  the  foliage  and  the  patches  of  cultivated 
land,  each  vale  being  sparsely  fringed  with  little  gray 
stone  dwellings  that  seemed  no  more  than  card-houses, 
in  those  appalling  depths.  You  think  of  Wordsworth, 
in  such  a  place  as  that,  —  if  you  know  his  poetry.  You 
cannot  choose  but  think  of  him. 

"  Who  comes  not  hither  ne''er  shall  know 
How  beautiful  the  world  below." 

Yet  somehow  it  happened  that  whenever  friends 
joined  in  those  rambles  the  great  poet  was  sure  to  dawn 
upon  us  in  a  comic  way.  When  we  were  resting  on  the 
bridge  at  the  foot  of  Brothers  Water,  which  is  a  little 
lake,  scarcely  more  than  a  mountain  tarn,  lying  between 
Ullswater  and  the  Kirkstone  Pass,  some  one  recalled  that 

1  The  poet  Gray,  who  visited  these  mountains  in  1769,  wrote,  in  his 
Journal,  October  i  :  "  Place  Fell,  one  of  the  bravest  among  them,  pushes 
its  bold  broad  breast  into  the  midst  of  the  lake,  and  forces  it  to  alter  its 
course,  forming  first  a  large  bay  to  the  left  and  then  bending  to  the  right." 


VI 


THE   LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH 


lOI 


Wordsworth  had  once  rested  there  and  written  a  poem 
about  it.  We  were  not  all  as  devout  admirers  of  the 
bard  as  I  am,  and  certainly  it  is  not  every  one  of  the 
great  author's  compositions  that  a  lover  of  his  genius 
would  wish  to  hear  quoted,  under  such  circumstances. 
The  Brothers  Water  poem  is  the  one  that  begins  "  The 
cock  is  crowing,  the  stream  is  flowing,"  and  I  do  not 
think  that  its  insipidity  is  much  relieved  by  its  famous 
picture  of  the  grazing  cattle,  "forty  feeding  like  one." 


Lyulph's   Tower —  Ullsioater. 


Henry  Irving,  not  much  given  to  enthusiasm  about 
Wordsworth,  heard  those  lines  with  undisguised  merri- 
ment, and  made  a  capital  travesty  of  them  on  the  spot. 
It  is  significant  to  remember,  with  reference  to  the  in- 
equality of  Wordsworth,  that  on  the  day  before  he  wrote 
"The  cock  is  crowing,"  and  at  a  place  but  a  short  dis- 
tance from  the  Brothers  Water  bridge,  he  had  written 


102  GRAY   DAYS   AND    GOLD  chap. 

that  peerless  lyric  about  the  daffodils,  —  "I  wandered 
lonely  as  a  cloud."  Gowbarrow  Park  is  the  scene  of 
that  poem,  —  a  place  of  ferns  and  hawthorns,  notable  for 
containing  Lyulph's  Tower,  a  romantic,  ivy-clad  lodge 
owned  by  the  Duke  of  Norfolk,  and  Aira  Force,  a 
waterfall  much  finer  than  Lodore.  Upon  the  lake  shore 
in  Gowbarrow  Park  you  may  still  see  the  daffodils  as 
Wordsworth  saw  them,  a  golden  host,  "  glittering  and 
dancing  in  the  breeze."  No  one  but  a  true  poet  could 
have  made  that  perfect  lyric,  with  its  delicious  close  : 

"  For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  He 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  soUtude  : 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils." 

The  third  and  fourth  lines  were  written  by  the  poet's 
wife,  and  they  show  that  she  was  not  a  poet's  wife  in 
vain.  It  must  have  been  in  his  "vacant  mood" 
that  he  rested  and  wrote,  on  the  bridge  at  Brothers 
Water.  "  I  saw  Wordsworth  often  when  I  was  a  child," 
said  Frank  Marshall  ^  [who  had  joined  us  at  Penrith]  ; 
"  he  used  to  come  to  my  father's  house,  Patterdale  Hall, 
and  once  I  was  sent  to  the  garden  by  Mrs.  Wordsworth 
to  call  him  to  supper.  He  was  musing  there,  I  suppose. 
He  had  a  long,  horse-like  face.  I  don't  think  I  liked 
him.     I  said,  'Your  wife  wants  you.'     He  looked  down 

1  F.  A.  Marshall,  editor  of  The  Henry  Irving  Edition  of  Shakespeare 
and  author  of  A  Study  of  Hamlet,  the  comedy  of  False  Shame,  and  many 
other  works,  died  in  London,  December,  1889,  much  lamented.  His 
widow,  —  the  once  distinguished  actress,  Miss  Ada  Cavendish,  —  died,  at 
34  Thurloe  square,  London,  October  6,  1895. 


VI 


THE   LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH 


103 


at  me  and  he  answered,  '  My  boy,  you  should  say  Mrs. 
Wordsworth,  and  not  "your  wife."'  I  looked  up  at 
him  and  I  replied,  '  She  is  your  wife,  isn't  she  .-* ' 
Whereupon  he  said  no  more.  I  don't  think  he  liked 
me  either."  We  were  going  up  Kirkstone  Pass  when 
Marshall  told  this  story,  —  which  seemed  to  bring  the 
pensive  and  homely  poet  plainly  before  us.  An  hour 
later,  at  the  top  of  the  pass,  while  waiting  in  the  old  inn 
called  the  Traveller's  Rest,  which  incorrectly  proclaims 
itself  the  highest  inhabited  house  in  England,^  I  spoke 
with  an  ancient,  weather-beaten 
hostler,  not  wholly  unfamiliar  with 
the  medicinal  virtue  of  ardent 
spirits,  and  asked  for  his  opinion 
of  the  great  lake  poet.  "Well," 
he  said,  "  people  are  always  talk- 
ing about  Wordsworth,  but  I  don't 
see  much  in  it.  I've  read  it,  but 
I  don't  care  for  it.  It's  dry  stuff 
—  it  don't  chime."  Truly  there 
are  all  sorts  of  views,  just  as  there 
are  all  sorts  of  people. 

Mementos  of  Wordsworth  are 
frequently  encountered  by  the 
traveller  among  these  lakes  and  fells.  One  of  them, 
situated  at  the  foot  of  Place  Fell,  is  a  rustic  cot- 
tage that  the  poet  once  selected  for  his  residence :  it 
was  purchased  for  him  by  Lord  Lonsdale,  as  a  partial 


I  [  "dliam    \  \  'o!  dsioort/i. 


^  The  Traveller's  Rest  is  148 1  feet  above  the  sea-level,  whereas  the  inn 
called  The  Cat  and  Fiddle,  —  a  corruption  of  Caton  le  Fidele,  governor  of 
Calais, —  on  Axe  Edge,  near  Buxton,  is  1700  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea. 


I04 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


indemnity  for  losses  caused  by  an  ancestor  of  his  to 
Wordsworth's  father.     The  poet  liked  the  place,  but  he 


Approach  to  Ambleside. 


never  lived  there.     The  house  somewhat  resembles  the 
Shakespeare    cottage    at    Stratford, — the    living-room 


VI  THE   LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH  105 

being  floored  with  stone  slabs,  irregular  in  size  and 
shape  and  mostly  broken  by  hard  use.  In  a  corner  of 
the  kitchen  stands  a  fine  carved  oak  cupboard,  dark 
with  age,  inscribed  with  the  date  of  the  Merry  Mon- 
arch, 1660. 

What  were  the  sights  of  those  sweet  days  that  linger 
still,  and  will  always  linger,  in  my  remembrance  ?  A 
ramble  in  the  park  of  Patterdale  Hall  [the  old  name 
of  the  estate  is  Halsteads],  which  is  full  of  American 
trees  ;  a  golden  morning  in  Dovedale,  with  Irving,  much 
like  Jaques,  reclined  upon  a  shaded  rock,  half-way  up 
the  mountain,  musing  and  moralising  in  his  sweet,  kind 
way,  beside  the  brawling  stream ;  the  first  prospect 
of  Windermere,  from  above  Ambleside,  —  a  vision  of 
heaven  upon  earth ;  the  drive  by  Rydal  Water,  which 
has  all  the  loveliness  of  celestial  pictures  seen  in 
dreams ;  the  glimpse  of  stately  Rydal  Hall  and  of  the 
sequestered  Rydal  Mount,  where  Wordsworth  so  long 
lived  and  where  he  died ;  the  Wishing  Gate,  where  one 
of  us,  I  know,  wished  in  his  heart  that  he  could  be 
young  again  and  be  wiser  than  to  waste  his  youth  in 
self-willed  folly ;  the  restful  hours  of  observation  and 
thought  at  delicious  Grasmere,  where  we  stood  in  silence 
at  Wordsworth's  grave  and  heard  the  murmur  of  Rotha 
singing  at  his  feet ;  the  lovely  drive  past  Matterdale, 
across  the  moorlands,  with  only  clouds  and  rooks  for 
our  chance  companions,  and  mountains  for  sentinels 
along  our  way ;  the  ramble  through  Keswick,  all  golden 
and  glowing  in  the  afternoon  sun,  till  we  stood  by 
Crosthwaite  church  and  read  the  words  of  commem- 
oration that  grace  the  tomb  of  Robert  Southey ;  the 
divine  circuit  of  Derwent,  —  surely  the  loveliest  sheet  of 


G 


c:) 


liiili* 


-A    ^^^ 


» 


)    ^<>J 


z:^/- 


7^ 


CHAP.  VI.  THE   LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH 


107 


water  in  England  ;  the  descent  into  the  vale  of  Keswick, 
with  sunset  on  the  rippling  crystal  of  the  lake  and  the 
perfume  of  countless  wild  roses  on  the  evening  wind. 
These  things,  and  the  midnight  talk  about  these  things, 
—  Irving,  so  tranquil,  so  gentle,  so  full  of  keen  and 
sweet  appreciation  of  them,  —  Bendall,  so  bright  and 
thoughtful,  —  Marshall,  so  quaint  and  jolly,  and  so  full 
of  knowledge  equally  of  nature  and  of  books !  —  can 
never  be  forgotten.  In  one  heart  they  are  cherished 
forever. 

Wordsworth  is  buried  in  Grasmere  churchyard,  close 
by  the  wall,  on  the  bank  of  the  little  river  Rotha. 
"Sing  him  thy  best,"  said  Matthew  Arnold,  in  his 
lovely  dirge  for  the  great  poet  — 

"Sing  him  tliy  best!  for  few  or  none 
Hears  thy  voice  right,  now  he  is  gone." 

In  the  same  grave  with  Wordsworth  sleeps  his  de- 
voted wife.  Beside  them  rest  the  poet's  no  less  devoted 
sister  Dorothy,  who  died  at  Rydal  Mount  in  1855,  aged 
83,  and  his  daughter,  Dora,  together  with  her  husband 
Edward  Quillinan,  of  whom  Arnold  wrote  so  tenderly : 

''Alive,  we  would  have  changed  his  lot, 
We  would  not  change  it  now." 

On  the  low  gravestone  that  marks  the  sepulchre 
of  V/ordsworth  are  written  these  words :  "  William 
Wordsworth,  1850.  Mary  Wordsworth,  1859."  I^i 
the  neighbouring  church  a  mural  tablet  presents  this 
inscription  : 

"To  the  memory  of  William  Wordsworth.  A  true  poet  and 
philosopher,  who  by  the  special  gift  and  calling  of  Almighty  God, 
whether  he  discoursed  on  man  or  nature,  failed  not  to  lift  up  the 


io8 


GRAY  DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


heart  to  holy  things,  tired  not  of  maintaining  the  cause  of  the  poor 
and  simple,  and  so  in  perilous  times  was  raised  up  to  be  a  chief 
minister,  not  only  of  noblest  poetry,  but  of  high  and  sacred  truth. 
The  memorial  is  raised  here  by  his  friends  and  neighbours,  in  testi- 
mony of  respect,  affection,  and  gratitude.     Anno  mdcccli." 

A  few  steps  from  that  memorable  group  will  bring 
you  to  the  marble  cross  that  marks  the  resting-place  of 


•  ■i-5*'„u'' 


>-v 


Rydal  Mount  —  Wordswoi  th'i  Seat. 


Hartley  Coleridge,  son  of  the  great  author  of  TJie  An- 
cient Mariner,  himself  a  poet  of  exquisite  genius ;  and 
close  by  is  a  touching  memorial  to  the  gifted  man  who 
inspired  Matthew  Arnold's  poems  of  TJie  Scholar-Gipsy 
and  TJiyrsis.  This  is  a  slab  laid  upon  his  mother's 
grave,  at  the  foot  of  her  tombstone,  inscribed  with 
these  words : 


VI  THE   LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH 


109 


"In  memory  of  Arthur  Hugh  Clough,  some  time  Fellow  of  Oriel 
College,  Oxford,  the  beloved  son  of  James  Butler  and  Anne  Clough. 
This  remembrance  in  his  own  country  is  placed  on  his  mother's 
grave  by  those  to  whom  life  was  made  happy  by  his  presence  and 
his  love.  He  is  buried  in  the  Swiss  cemetery  at  Florence,  where 
he  died,  November  13,  1861,  aged  42. 

" '  So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold 
I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below. 
Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old.'" 

Southey  rests  in  Crosthwaite  churchyard,  about  half 
a  mile  north  of  Keswick,  where  he  died.  They  show 
you  Greta  Hall,  a  fine  mansion,  on  a  little  hill,  enclosed 
in  tall  trees,  which  for  forty  years,  ending  in  1843,  was 
the  poet's  home.  In  the  church  is  a  marble  figure  of 
Southey,  recumbent  on  a  large  stone  sarcophagus.  His 
grave  is  in  the  ground,  a  little  way  from  the  church, 
marked  by  a  low  flat  tomb,  on  the  end  of  which  appears 
an  inscription  commemorative  of  a  servant  who  had 
lived  fifty  years  in  his  family  and  is  buried  near  him. 
There  was  a  pretty  scene  at  this  grave.  When  I  came 
to  it  Irving  was  already  there,  and  was  speaking  to  a 
little  girl  who  had  guided  him  to  the  spot.  "If  any 
one  were  to  give  you  a  shilling,  my  dear,"  he  said, 
"what  would  you  do  with  it  .^ "  The  child  was  con- 
fused and  she  murmured  softly,  "  I  don't  know,  sir." 
"  Well,"  he  continued,  "  if  any  one  were  to  give  you  two 
shillings,  what  would  you  do  .'^ "  She  said  she  would 
save  it.  "  But  what  if  it  were  three  shillings  ? "  he 
asked,  and  each  time  he  spoke  he  dropped  a  silver  coin 
into  her  hand,  till  he  must  have  given  her  more  than  a 
dozen    of   them.       "  Four  —  five  —  six  —  seven  —  what 


no  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

would  you  do  with  the  money?"  "I  would  give  it  to 
my  mother,  sir,"  she  answered  at  last,  her  little  face  all 
smiles,  gazing  up  at  the  stately,  sombre  stranger,  whose 
noble  countenance  never  looked  more  radiant  than  it 
did  then,  with  gentle  kindness  and  pleasure.  It  is  a 
trifle  to  mention,  but  it  was  touching  in  its  simplicity ; 
and  that  amused  group,  around  the  grave  of  Southey, 
in  the  blaze  of  the  golden  sun  of  a  July  afternoon,  with 
Skiddaw  looming  vast  and  majestic  over  all,  will  linger 
with  me  as  long  as  anything  lovely  and  of  good  report 
is  treasured  in  my  memory.  Long  after  we  had  left 
the  place  I  chanced  to  speak  of  its  peculiar  interest. 
"  The  most  interesting  thing  I  saw  there,"  said  Irving, 
"was  that  sweet  child."  I  do  not  think  the  great  actor 
was  ever  much  impressed  with  the  beauties  of  the  lake 
poets. 

Another  picture  glimmers  across  my  dream,  —  a  pict- 
ure of  peace  and  happiness  which  may  close  this  ram- 
bling reminiscence  of  gentle  days.  We  had  driven  up 
the  pass  between  Glencoin  and  Gowbarrow,  and  had 
reached  Matterdale,  on  our  way  toward  Troutbeck  sta- 
tion,—  not  the  beautiful  Windermere  Troutbeck,  but  the 
less  famous  one.  The  road  is  lonely,  but  at  Matterdale 
the  traveller  sees  a  few  houses,  and  there  our  gaze  was 
attracted  by  a  gray  church  nestled  in  a  hollow  of  the 
hillside.  It  stands  sequestered  in  its  place  of  graves, 
with  bright  greensward  around  it  and  a  few  trees.  A 
faint  sound  of  organ  music  floated  from  this  sacred 
building  and  seemed  to  deepen  the  hush  of  the  summer 
wind  and  shed  a  holier  calm  upon  the  lovely  solitude. 
We  dismounted  and  silently  entered  the  church.  A  youth 
and  a  maiden,  apparently  lovers,  were  sitting  at  the  or- 


VI 


THE  LAND   OF   WORDSWORTH 


III 


gan,  —  the  youth  playing  and  the  girl  listening,  and  look- 
ins:  with  tender  trust  and  innocent  affection  into  his  face. 
He  recognised  our  presence  with  a  kindly  nod,  but  went 
on  with  the  music.  I  do  not  think  she  saw  us  at  all.  The 
place  was  full  of  soft,  warm  light  streaming  through  the 
stained  glass  of  Gothic  windows  and  fragrant  with  per- 
fume floating  from  the  hay-fields  and  the  dew-drenched 
roses  of  many  a  neighbouring  hedge.  Not  a  word  was 
spoken,  and  after  a  few  moments  we  departed,  as  silently 
as  we  had  come.  Those  lovers  will  never  know  what  eyes 
looked  upon  them  that  day,  what  hearts  were  comforted 
with  the  sight  of  their  happiness,  or  how  a  careworn  man, 
three  thousand  miles  away,  fanning  upon  his  hearthstone 
the  dying  embers  of  hope,  now  thinks  of  them  with  ten- 
der sympathy,  and  murmurs  a  blessing  on  the  gracious 
scene  which  their  presence  so  much  endeared. 


An   Old  Lich   Gate. 


CHAPTER   VII 


SHAKESPEARE    RELICS    AT    WORCESTER 


ORCESTER,  July  23,  1889.  —  The  pres- 
ent wanderer  came  lately  to  The 
Faithful  City,  and  these  words  are 
written  in  a  midnight  hour  at  the 
Unicorn  Hotel.  This  place  is  redolent 
of  the  wars  of  the  Stuarts,  and  the 
moment  you  enter  it  your  mind  is  filled  with  the 
presence  of  Charles  the  Martyr,  Charles  the  Merry, 
Prince  Rupert,  and  Oliver  Cromwell.  From  the  top  of 
Red  Hill  and  the  margin  of  Perry  wood,  — now  sleep- 
ing in  the  starlight  or  momentarily  vocal  with  the  rustle 
of  leaves  and  the  note  of  half-awakened  birds, — Crom- 
well looked  down  over  the  ancient  walled  city  which  he 
had  beleaguered.  Upon  the  summit  of  the  great  tower 
of  Worcester  Cathedral  Charles  and  Rupert  held  their 
last  council  of  war.  Here  was  lost,  September  3,  165 1, 
the  battle  that  made  the  Merry  Monarch  a  hunted  fugi- 
tive and  an  exile.  With  a  stranger's  interest  I  have  ram- 
bled on  those  heights ;  traversed  the  battlefield  ;  walked 
in  every  part  of  the  cathedral;  attended  divine  service 

112 


114  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

there  ;  revelled  in  the  antiquities  of  the  Edgar  Tower  ; 
roamed  through  most  of  the  city  streets ;  traced  all 
that  can  be  traced  of  the  old  wall  [there  is  little  re- 
maining of  it  now,  and  no  part  that  can  be  walked 
upon]  ;  explored  the  royal  porcelain  works,  for  which 
Worcester  is  rightly  famous  ;  viewed  several  of  its  old 
churches  and  its  one  theatre,  in  Angel  street  ;  entered 
its  Guildhall,  where  they  preserve  a  fine  piece  of  artil- 
lery and  nine  suits  of  black  armour  that  were  left  by 
Charles  the  Second  when  he  fled  from  Worcester  ;  paced 
the  dusty  and  empty  Trinity  Hall,  now  abandoned  and 
condemned  to  demolition,  where  once  Queen  Elizabeth 
was  feasted;  and  visited  the  old  Commandery,  —  a  rare 
piece  of  antiquity,  remaining  from  the  tenth  century, 
—  wherein  the  Duke  of  Hamilton  died,  of  his  wounds, 
after  Cromwell's  "crowning  mercy,"  and  beneath  the 
floor  of  which  he  was  laid  in  a  temporary  grave.  The 
Commandery  is  now  owned  and  occupied  by  a  printer 
of  directories  and  guide-books,  the  genial  and  hospitable 
Mr.  Littlebury,  and  there,  as  everywhere  else  in  storied 
Worcester,  the  arts  of  peace  prevail  over  all  the  scenes 
and  all  the  traces  of 

"  Old,  unhappy,  far-off  things 
And  battles  long  ago." 

In  the  Edgar  Tower  at  Worcester  they  keep  the 
original  of  the  marriage-bond  that  was  given  by  Fulk 
Sandells  and  John  Richardson,  of  Shottery,  as  a  pre- 
liminary to  the  marriage  of  William  Shakespeare 
and  Anne  Hathaway.  It  is  a  long,  narrow  strip  of 
parchment,  and  it  has  been  glazed  and  framed.  Two 
seals  of  light-coloured  wax  were  originally  attached  to 


VII  SHAKESPEARE   RELICS   AT   WORCESTER  115 

it,  dependent  by  strings,  but  these  have  been  removed, 
—  apparently  for  the  convenience  of  the  mechanic  who 
put  the  relic  into  its  present  frame.  The  handwriting 
is  crabbed  and  obscure.  There  are  but  few  persons 
who  can  read  the  handwriting  in  old  documents  of  this 
kind,  and  thousands  of  such  documents  exist  in  the 
church-archives,  and  elsewhere,  in  England,  that  have 
never  been  examined.  The  bond  is  for  ^40,  and  is 
a  guarantee  that  there  was  no  impediment  to  the  mar- 
riage of  William  Shakespeare  and  Anne  Hathaway.  It 
is  dated  November  28,  1582;  its  text  authorises  the 
wedding  after  only  once  calling  the  banns  in  church ; 
and  it  is  supposed  that  the  marriage  took  place  imme- 
diately, since  the  first  child  of  it,  Susanna  Shakespeare, 
was  baptized  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at 
Stratford  on  May  26,  1583.  No  registration  of  the  mar- 
riage has  been  found,  but  that  is  no  proof  that  it  does 
not  exist.  The  law  is  said  to  have  prescribed  that  three 
parishes,  within  the  residential  diocese,  should  be  desig- 
nated, in  any  one  of  which  the  marriage  might  be  made; 
but  custom  permitted  the  contracting  parties,  when  they 
had  complied  with  this  requirement,  to  be  married  in 
whatever  parish,  within  the  diocese,  they  might  prefer. 
The  three  parishes  supposed  to  have  been  named  are 
Stratford,  Bishopton,  and  Luddington.  The  registers 
of  two  of  them  have  been  searched,  and  searched  in 
vain.  The  register  of  the  third,  —  that  of  Luddington, 
which  is  near  Shottery,  and  about  three  miles  southwest 
of  Stratford,  — ■  was  destroyed,  long  ago,  in  a  fire  that 
burnt  down  Luddington  church;  and  conjecture  as- 
sumes that  Shakespeare  was  married  at  Luddington. 
It  may  be  so,  but  until  every  old  church  register  in  the 


Il6  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


ancient  diocese  of  Worcester  has  been  examined,  the 
quest  of  the  registration  of  his  marriage  ought  not  to 
be  abandoned.  Richard  Savage,  the  learned  and  dili- 
gent librarian  of  the  Shakespeare  Birthplace,  has  long 
been  occupied  with  this  inquiry,  and  has  transcribed 
several  of  the  old  church  registers  in  the  vicinity  of 
Stratford.  The  Rev.  Thomas  Procter  Wadley,^  another 
local  antiquary,  of  great  learning  and  incessant  indus- 
try, has  also  taken  part  in  this  labour.  The  long-desired 
entry  of  the  marriage  of  William  and  Anne  remains  un- 
discovered, but  one  gratifying  and  valuable  result  of 
these  investigations  is  the  disclosure  that  many  of  the 
names  used  in  Shakespeare's  works  are  the  names  of 
persons  who  were  residents  of  Warwickshire  in  his 
time.  It  has  pleased  various  crazy  sensation-mongers 
to  ascribe  the  authorship  of  Shakespeare's  writings  to 
Francis  Bacon.  This  could  only  be  done  by  ignoring 
positive  evidence,  —  the  evidence,  namely,  of  Ben  Jon- 
son,  who  knew  Shakespeare  personally,  and  who  has  left 
a  written  description  of  the  manner  in  which  Shake- 
speare composed  his  plays.  Effrontery  was  to  be  ex- 
pected from  the  advocates  of  the  preposterous  Bacon 
theory ;  but  when  they  have  ignored  the  positive  evi- 
dence, and  the  internal  evidence,  and  the  circumstantial 
evidence,  and  every  other  sort  of  evidence,  they  have 
still  a  serious  obstacle  to  surmount,  —  an  obstacle  that 
the  researches  of  such  patient  scholars  as  Mr.  Savage 
and  Mr.  Wadley  are  strengthening  day  by  day.  The 
man  who  wrote  Shakespeare's  plays  knew  Warwickshire 
as  it  could  only  be  known  to  a  native  of  it ;  and  there  is 

1  Mr.  Wadley  died  at   Pershore,  April   4,  1S95,  and  was  buried  in  Bid- 
ford  churchyard  on  April  10. 


vn 


SHAKESPEARE   RELICS   AT   WORCESTER 


117 


no    proof   that    Francis    Bacon    knew   it   or    ever   was 
in  it.i 

With  reference  to  the  Shakespeare  marriage-bond, 
and  the  other  records  that  are  kept  in  the  Edgar  Tower 
at  Worcester,  it  may  perhaps  justly  be  said  that  they  are 
not  protected  with  the  scrupulous  care  to  which  such 
treasures  are  entitled.  The  Tower,  —  a  gray  and  ven- 
erable relic,  an  ancient  gate   of  the  monastery,  dating 


The  Edgar    Tower. 

back  to  the  time  of  King  John,  —  affords  an  appropriate 
receptacle  for  those  documents ;  but  it  would  not  with- 
stand fire,  and  it  does  not  contain  either  a  fire-proof 
chamber  or  a  safe.  The  Shakespeare  marriage-bond, — 
which  would  be  appropriately  housed  in  the  Shakespeare 


1  See  in  the  London  Athemniin,  P'ebruary  9,  18S9,  a  valuable  article, 
by  Mr.  John  Taylor,  on  "  Local  Shakesperean  Names  "  based  upon,  and  in- 
corporative  of,  some  of  the  researches  of  Mr.  Wadley. 


Il8  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

Birthplace,  at  Stratford, — was  taken  from  the  floor  of 
a  closet,  where  it  had  been  lying,  together  with  a  num- 
ber of  dusty  books,  and  I  was  kindly  permitted  to  hold 
it  in  my  hands  and  to  examine  it.  The  frame  provided 
for  this  priceless  relic  is  such  as  may  be  seen  on  an 
ordinary  school  slate.  From  another  dusty  closet  an 
attendant  extricated  a  manuscript  diary  kept  by  William 
Lloyd,  Bishop  of  Worcester  [1627-1717],  and  by  his 
man-servant,  for  several  years,  about  the  beginning  of 
the  reign  of  Queen  Anne ;  and  in  this  are  many  quaint 
and  humorous  entries,  valuable  to  the  student  of  his- 
tory and  manners.  In  still  another  closet,  having  the 
appearance  of  a  rubbish-bin,  I  saw  heaps  of  old  parch- 
ment and  paper  writings,  —  a  mass  of  antique  registry 
that  it  would  need  the  labour  of  five  or  six  years  to 
examine,  decipher,  and  classify.  Worcester  is  especially 
rich  in  old  records,  and  it  is  not  impossible  that  the 
missing  clew  to  Shakespeare's  marriage  may  yet  be 
found  in  that  old  cathedral  city. 

Worcester  is  rich  also  in  a  superb  library,  which,  by 
the  kindness  of  Mr.  Hooper,  the  custodian,  I  was  allowed 
to  explore,  high  up  beneath  the  roof  of  the  lovely  cathe- 
dral. That  collection  of  books,  numbering  about  five 
thousand,  consists  mostly  of  folios,  many  of  which  were 
printed  in  France.  They  keep  it  in  a  long,  low,  oak- 
timbered  room,  the  triforium  of  the  south  aisle  of  the 
nave.  The  approach  is  by  a  circular  stone  staircase. 
In  an  anteroom  to  the  library  I  saw  a  part  of  the  an- 
cient north  door  of  this  church,  —  a  fragment  dating 
back  to  the  time  of  Bishop  Wakefield,  1386,  —  to  which 
is  still  affixed  a  piece  of  the  skin  of  a  human  being. 
The  tradition   is  that  a   Dane  committed  sacrilege,  by 


VII  SHAKESPEARE   RELICS   AT   WORCESTER 


119 


Stealing  the  sanctus  bell  from  the  high  altar,  and  was 
thereupon  flayed  alive  for  his  crime,  and  the  skin  of 
him  was  fasteiTed  to  the  cathedral  door.  In  the  library- 
are  magnificent  editions  of  Aristotle  and  other  classics  ; 
the  works  of  the  fathers  of  the  church ;  a  beautiful 
illuminated  manuscript  of  Wickliffe's  New  Testament, 
written  on  vellum  in  1381  ;  and  several  books,  in  splen- 
did preservation,  from  the  press  of  Caxton  and  that  of 
Wynken  de  Worde.  The  world  moves,  but  printing  is 
not  better  done  now  than  it  was  then.  This  library, 
which  is  for  the  use  of  the  clergy  of  the  diocese  of 
Worcester,  was  founded  by  Bishop  Carpenter,  in  1461, 
and  originally  it  was  stored  in  the  chapel  of  the  charnel- 
house. 

Reverting  to  the  subject  of  old  documents,  a  useful 
word  may  perhaps  be  said  here  about  the  registers  in 
Trinity  church  at  Stratford,  —  documents  which,  in  a 
spirit  of  disparagement,  have  sometimes  been  designated 
as  "  copies."  That  sort  of  levity  in  the  discussion  of 
Shakespearean  subjects  is  not  unnatural  in  days  when 
"  cranks  "  are  allowed  freely  to  besmirch  the  memory 
of  Shakespeare,  in  their  wildly  foolish  advocacy  of  what 
they  call  "the  Bacon  theory"  of  the  authorship  of 
Shakespeare's  works.  The  present  writer  has  often 
held  the  Stratford  Registers  in  his  hands  and  explored 
their  quaint  pages.  Those  records  are  contained  in 
twenty-two  volumes.  They  begin  with  the  first  year  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  1558,  and  they  end,  as  to  the  old 
parchment  form,  in  1812.  From  1558  to  1600  the 
entries  were  made  in  a  paper  book,  of  the  quarto  form, 
still  occasionally  to  be  found  in  ancient  parish  churches 
of   England.     In    1599  an   order-in-council  was    made. 


I20  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

commanding  that  those  entries  should  be  copied  into 
parchment  volumes,  for  their  better  preservation.  This 
was  done.  The  parchment  volumes,  ^—  which  were 
freely  shown  to  me  by  William  Butcher,^  the  parish 
clerk  of  Stratford,  ■ — date  back  to  1600.  The  handwrit- 
ing of  the  copied  portion,  covering  the  period  from  1558 
to  1600,  is  careful  and  uniform.  Each  page  is  certified, 
as  to  its  accuracy,  by  the  vicar  and  the  churchwardens. 
After  1600  the  handwritings  vary.  In  the  register  of 
marriage  a  new  handwriting  appears  on  September  17 
that  year,  and  in  the  registers  of  Baptism  and  Burial 
it  appears  on  September  20.  The  sequence  of  mar- 
riages is  complete  until  1756;  that  of  baptisms  and 
burials  until  1812;  when,  in  each  case,  a  book  of 
printed  forms  comes  into  use,  and  the  expeditious 
march  of  the  new  age  begins.  The  entry  of  Shake- 
speare's baptism,  April  26,  1564,  from  which  it  is  in- 
ferred that  he  was  born  on  April  23,  is  extant  as  a 
certified  copy  from  the  earlier  paper  book.  The  entry 
of  Shakespeare's  burial  is  the  original  entry,  made  in 
the  original  register. 

Some  time  ago  an  American  writer  suggested  that 
Shakespeare's  widow,  —  seven  years  his  senior  at  the 
start,  and  therefore  fifty-nine  years  old  when  he  died, 
■ — ■  subsequently  contracted  another  marriage.  Mrs. 
Shakespeare  survived  her  husband  seven  years,  dying 
on  August  6,  1623,  at  the  age  of  sixty-seven.  The 
entry  in  the  Stratford  register  of  burial  contains,  against 
the  date  of  August  8,  1623,  the  names  of  "  Mrs.  Shake- 
speare "  and  "Anna  uxor  Richard  James."     Those  two 

^  William  Butcher  died  on  February  20,  1S95,  aged  sixty-six,  and  was 
buried  in  the  Stratford  Cemetery. 


VII  SHAKESPEARE    RELICS   AT   WORCESTER  121 

names,  written  one  above  the  other,  are  connected  by 
a  bracket  on  the  left  side ;  and  this  is  supposed  to  be 
evidence  that  Shakespeare's  widow  married  again.  The 
use  of  the  bracket  could  not  possibly  mislead  anybody 
possessing  the  faculty  of  clear  vision.  When  two  or 
more  persons  were  either  baptized  or  buried  on  the 
same  day,  the  parish  clerk,  in  making  the  requisite 
entry  in  the  register,  connected  their  names  with  a 
bracket.  Three  instances  of  this  practice  occur  upon 
a  single  page  of  the  register,  in  the  same  handwriting, 
close  to  the  page  that  records  the  burial,  on  the  same 
day,  of  Mrs.  Shakespeare,  widow,  and  Anna  the  wife 
of  Richard  James.  But  folly  needs  only  a  slender  hook 
on  which  to  hang  itself. 

John  Baskerville,  the  famous  printer  [i 706-1 775], 
was  born  in  Worcester,  and  his  remains,  the  burial-place 
of  which  was  long  unknown,  have  lately  been  discov- 
ered there.  Incledon,  the  famous  singer,  died  there. 
Prince  Arthur  [1486-1502],  eldest  son  of  King  Henry 
the  Seventh,  was  buried  in  Worcester  Cathedral,  where 
a  beautiful  chantry  was  built  over  his  remains  in  1 504. 
Bishop  John  Gauden  [1605-1662],  who  wrote  tho.  Eikou 
Basilike,  long  generally  attributed  to  Charles  the  First, 
rests  there.  The  Duke  of  Hamilton,  who  died  of  his 
wounds,  after  Worcester  fight,  was  transferred  to  that 
place,  from  his  temporary  grave  in  the  Commandery. 
And  in  the  centre  of  the  sacrarium  stands  the  tomb  of 
that  tyrant  King  John,  who  died  on  October  19,  12 16, 
at  Newark,  and  whose  remains,  when  the  tomb  was 
opened,!  j^^^y  j-,^  17^)7,  presented  a  ghastly  spectacle. 

1  See  An  Account  of  the  Discovery  of  the  Body  of  King  John,  in  the 
Cathedral  Church  of  Worcester.     By  Valentine  Green,  F.S.A.,  1797. 


CHAPTER   VIII 


BYRON    AND    HUCKNALL-TORKARD    CHURCH 


ANUARY  22,  1 888.  —  On  a  night  in  1 785, 
when  Mrs.  Siddons  was  acting  at  Edin- 
burgh, the  play  being  TJie  Fatal  Mandage 
and  the  character  Isabella,  a  young  lady 
of  Aberdeenshire,  Miss  Catherine  Gordon, 
of  Gight,  was  among  the  audience.  There 
is  a  point  in  that  tragedy  at  which  Isabella  recognises  her 
first  husband,  whom  she  had  supposed  to  be  dead,  and  in 
whose  absence  she  had  been  married  to  another,  and  her 
consternation,  grief,  and  rapture  are  sudden  and  excessive. 
Mrs.  Siddons,  at  that  point,  always  made  a  great  effect. 
The  words  are,  "O  my  Biron,  my  Biron !  "  On  this 
night,  at  the  moment  when  the  wonderful  actress  sent 
forth  her  wailing,  heart-piercing  cry,  as  she  uttered 
those  words.  Miss  Gordon  gave  a  frantic  scream,  fell 
into  violent  hysterics,  and  was  borne  out  of  the  theatre, 
repeating  "  O  my  Biron,  my  Biron !  "  At  the  time  of 
that  incident  she  had  not  met  the  man  by  whom  she 
was  afterward  wedded, — the  Hon.  John  Byron,  whose 
wife  she  became,  about  a  year  later.     Their  first-born 

122 


CHAP.  VIII    BYRON  AND   IIUCKNALL-TORKARD  CHURCH 


123 


and  only  child  was  George  Gordon,  afterward  Lord 
Byron,  the  poet ;  and  among  the  many  aspects  of  his 
life  which  impress  the  thoughtful  reader  of  its  strange 
and  melancholy  story  none  is  more  striking  than  the 
dramatic  aspect  of  it,  —  so  strangely  prefigured  in  this 
event. 

Censure  of  Byron,  whether  as  a  man  or  as  a  writer, 
may  be  considered  to  have  spent  its  force.  It  is  a 
hundred  years 
since  he  was  born, 
and  almost  as 
many  since  he 
died.^  Everybody 
who  wished  to  say 
a  word  against 
him  has  had  am- 
p  1  e  opportunity 
for  saying  it,  and 
there  is  evidence 
that  this  opportu- 
nity has  not  been 
neglected.  The 
record  was  long 
ago  made  up. 
Everybody  knows 
that  Byron's  con- 
duct was  some- 
times deformed  with  frenzy  and  stained  with  vice.  Every- 
body knows  that  Byron's  writings  are  occasionally  marred 
with  profanity  and  licentiousness,  and  that  they  contain 


Lord  Byron. 


1  Byron  was  born  on  January  22,  1788,  and  he  died  on  April  19,  1824. 


124  GRAY  DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

a  quantity  of  crude  verse.  If  he  had  never  been  married, 
or  if,  being  married,  his  domestic  life  had  not  ended  in 
disaster  and  scandal,  his  personal  reputation  would  stand 
higher  than  it  does  at  present,  in  the  esteem  of  virtuous 
society.  If  about  one-third  of  what  he  wrote  had  never 
been  published,  his  reputation  as  a  man  of  letters  would 
stand  higher  than  it  now  does  in  the  esteem  of  stern 
judges  of  literary  art.  After  an  exhaustive  discussion 
of  the  subject  in  every  aspect  of  it,  after  every  variety  of 
hostile  assault,  and  after  praise  sounded  in  every  key  of 
enthusiasm  and  in  every  language  of  the  world,  these 
truths  remain.  It  is  a  pity  that  Byron  was  not  a  virtu- 
ous man  and  a  good  husband.  It  is  a  pity  that  he  was 
not  invariably  a  scrupulous  literary  artist,  that  he  wrote 
so  much,  and  that  almost  everything  he  wrote  was  pub- 
lished. But,  when  all  this  has  been  said,  it  remains  a 
solid  and  immovable  truth  that  Byron  was  a  great  poet 
and  that  he  continues  to  be  a  great  power  in  the  litera- 
ture and  life  of  the  world.  Nobody  who  pretends  to 
read  anything  omits  to  read  CJiilde  Harold. 

To  touch  this  complex  and  delicate  subject  in  only  a 
superficial  manner  it  may  not  be  amiss  to  say  that  the 
world  is  under  obligation  to  Byron,  if  for  nothing  else, 
for  the  spectacle  of  a  romantic,  impressive,  and  instruc- 
tive life.  His  agency  in  that  spectacle  no  doubt  was 
involuntary,  but  all  the  same  he  presented  it.  He  was 
a  great  poet ;  a  man  of  genius  ;  his  faculty  of  expres- 
sion was  colossal,  and  his  conduct  was  absolutely 
genuine.  No  man  in  literature  ever  lived  who  lived 
himself  more  fully.  His  assumptions  of  disguise  only 
made  him  more  obvious  and  transparent.  He  kept 
nothing  back.     His  heart  was  laid  absolutely  bare.    We 


VIII  BYRON   AND   HUCKNALL-TORKARD   CHURCH         125 

know  even  more  about  him  than  we  know  about  Dr. 
Johnson,  —  and  still  his  personality  endures  the  test  of 
our  knowledge  and  remains  unique,  romantic,  fascinat- 
ing, prolific  of  moral  admonition,  and  infinitely  pathetic. 
Byron  in  poetry,  like  Edmund  Kean  in  acting,  is  a  figure 
that  completely  fills  the  imagination,  profoundly  stirs 
the  heart,  and  never  ceases  to  impress  and  charm,  even 
while  it  afflicts,  the  sensitive  mind.  This  consideration 
alone,  viewed  apart  from  the  obligation  that  the  world 
owes  to  the  better  part  of  his  writings,  is  vastly  signifi- 
cant of  the  great  personal  force  that  is  inherent  in  the 
name  and  memory  of  Byron. 

It  has  been  considered  necessary  to  account  for  the 
sadness  and  gloom  of  Byron's  poetry  by  representing 
him  to  have  been  a  criminal  afflicted  with  remorse  for 
his  many  and  hideous  crimes.  His  widow,  apparently  a 
monomaniac,  after  long  brooding  over  the  remembrance 
of  a  calamitous  married  life,  —  brief,  unhappy,  and 
terminated  in  separation,  —  whispered  against  him, 
and  against  his  half-sister,  a  vile  and  hideous  charge ; 
and  this,  to  the  disgrace  of  American  literature,  was 
subsequently  brought  forward  by  a  distinguished  female 
writer  of  America,  much  noted  for  her  works  of  fiction 
and  especially  memorable  for  that  one.  The  explanation 
of  the  mental  distress  exhibited  in  the  poet's  writings 
was  thought  to  be  effectually  provided  in  that  disclosure. 
But,  as  this  revolting  and  inhuman  story,  —  desecrating 
graves,  insulting  a  wonderful  genius,  and  casting  infamy 
upon  the  name  of  an  affectionate,  faithful,  virtuous 
woman,  —  fell  to  pieces  the  moment  it  was  examined, 
the  student  of  Byron's  grief-stricken  nature  remained 
no  wiser  than  before  this  figment  of  a  diseased  imag- 


126  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


ination  had  been  divulged.  Surely,  however,  it  ought 
not  to  be  considered  mysterious  that  Byron's  poetry  is 
often  sad.  The  best  poetry  of  the  best  poets  is  touched 
with  sadness.  Hamlet  has  never  been  mistaken  for  a 
merry  production.  MacbetJi  and  King  Lear  do  not  com- 
monly produce  laughter.  Shelley  and  Keats  sing  as 
near  to  heaven's  gate  as  anybody,  and  both  of  them 
are  essentially  sad.  Scott  was  as  brave,  hopeful,  and 
cheerful  as  any  poet  that  ever  lived,  and  Scott's  poetry 
is  at  its  best  in  his  dirges  and  in  his  ballads  of  love  and 
loss.  The  Elegy  and  The  Ancient  Alariner  certainly  are 
great  poems,  but  neither  of  them  is  festive.  Byron 
often  wrote  sadly  because  he  was  a  man  of  melancholy 
temperament,  and  because  he  deeply  felt  the  pathos  of 
mortal  life,  the  awful  mystery  with  which  it  is  sur- 
rounded, the  pain  with  which  it  is  usually  attended,  the 
tragedy  with  which  it  commonly  is  accompanied,  the 
frail  tenure  with  which  its  loves  and  hopes  are  held, 
and  the  inexorable  death  with  which  it  is  continually 
environed  and  at  last  extinguished.  And  Byron  was 
an  unhappy  man  for  the  reason  that,  possessing  every 
elemental  natural  quality  in  excess,  his  goodness  was 
constantly  tortured  by  his  evil.  The  tempest,  the 
clangour,  and  the  agony  of  his  writings  are  denote- 
ments of  the  struggle  between  good  and  evil  that  was 
perpetually  afflicting  his  soul.  Had  he  been  the  wicked 
man  depicted  by  his  detractors,  he  would  have  lived  a 
life  of  comfortable  depravity  and  never  would  have 
written  at  all.     Monsters  do  not  suffer. 

The  true  appreciation  of  Byron  is  not  that  of  youth 
but  that  of  manhood.  Youth  is  captured  by  his  picto- 
rial and  sentimental  attributes.     Youth  beholds  him  as 


VIII  BYRON   AND    HUCKNAT.T.-TORKARD    CHURCH 


127 


a  nautical  Adonis,  standing  lonely  upon  a  barren  cliff 
and  gazing  at  a  stormy  sunset  over  the  /Egean  sea. 
Everybody  knows  that  familiar  picture,  —  with  the  wide 
and  open  collar,  the  great  eyes,  the  wild  hair,  and  the 
ample  neckcloth  flowing  in  the  breeze.  It  is  pretty  but 
it  is  not  like  the  real  man.  If  ever  at  any  time  he  was 
that  sentimental  image  he  speedily  outgrew  that  condi- 
tion, just  as  those  observers  of  him  who  truly  understand 
Byron  have  long  outgrown  their  juvenile  sympathy  with 
that  frail  and  puny  ideal  of  a  great  poet.  Manhood 
perceives  a  different  individual  and  is  captured  by  a 
different  attraction.  It  is  only  when  the  first  extrava- 
gant and  effusive  enthusiasm  has  run  its  course,  and  per- 
haps ended  in  revulsion,  that  we  come  to  know  Byron 
for  what  he  actually  is,  and  to  feel  the  tremendous 
power  of  his  genius.  Sentimental  folly  has  commemo- 
rated him,  in  the  margin  of  Hyde  Park,  as  in  the  fancy 
of  many  a  callow  youth  and  green  girl,  with  the  statue 
of  a  sailor-lad  waiting  for  a  spark  from  heaven,  while  a 
Newfoundland  dog  dozes  at  his  feet.  It  is  a  caricature. 
Byron  was  a  man,  and  terribly  in  earnest ;  and  it  is  only 
by  earnest  persons  that  his  mind  and  works  are  under- 
stood. At  this  distance  of  time  the  scandals  of  a  cor- 
rupt age,  equally  with  the  frailties  of  its  most  brilliant 
and  most  illustrious  poetical  genius,  may  well  be  left  to 
rest  in  the  oblivion  of  the  grave.  The  generation  that 
is  living  at  the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century  will  re- 
member of  Byron  only  that  he  was  the  uncompromising 
friend  of  liberty ;  that  he  did  much  to  emancipate  the 
human  mind  from  every  form  of  bigotry  and  tyranny ; 
that  he  augmented,  as  no  man  had  done  since  Dryden, 
the  power  and  flexibility  of  the  noble  English  tongue  ; 


128  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

and  that  he  enriched  literature  with  passages  of  poetry 
which,  for  subHmity,  beauty,  tenderness,  and  eloquence, 
have  seldom  been  equalled  and  have  never  been  ex- 
celled. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  a  fragrant,  golden  summer 
day  [August  8,  1884],  when,  having  driven  out  from 
Nottingham,  I  alighted  in  the  market-place  of  the  little 
town  of  Hucknall-Torkard,  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  grave 
of  Byron.  The  town  is  modern  and  commonplace  in 
appearance,  —  a  straggling  collection  of  low  brick  dwell- 
ings, mostly  occupied  by  colliers.  On  that  day  it  ap- 
peared at  its  worst ;  for  the  widest  part  of  its  main 
street  was  filled  with  stalls,  benches,  wagons,  and  can- 
vas-covered structures  for  the  display  of  vegetables  and 
other  commodities,  which  were  thus  offered  for  sale ; 
and  it  was  thronged  with  rough,  noisy,  and  dirty  per- 
sons, intent  on  barter  and  traffic,  and  not  indisposed  to 
boisterous  pranks  and  mirth,  as  they  pushed  and  jostled 
each  other,  among  the  crowded  booths.  This  main 
street  ends  at  the  wall  of  the  graveyard  in  which  stands 
the  little  gray  church  where  Byron  was  buried.  There 
is  an  iron  gate  in  the  centre  of  the  wall,  and  in  order 
to  reach  this  it  was  necessary  to  thread  the  mazes  of 
the  market-place,  and  to  push  aside  the  canvas  flaps  of 
a  peddler's  stall  which  had  been  placed  close  against  it. 
Next  to  the  churchyard  wall  is  a  little  cottage,^  with  its 
bit  of  garden,  devoted  in  this  instance  to  potatoes ;  and 
there,  while  waiting  for  the  sexton,  I  talked  with  an 
aged  man,  who   said  that  he   remembered,  as  an   eye- 

1  Since  this  paper  was  written  the  buildings  that  flanked  the  church 
wall  have  been  removed,  the  street  in  front  of  it  has  been  widened,  and 
the  church  has  been  "  restored  "  and  considerably  altered. 


HUCKNALL-TORKARD    CHURCH 


128  ^"^V^   AVn   GOLD 

and  tl  •    literature  with  passages  of  poetry 

wh  :nity,  beauty,  tenderness,  and  eloquence, 

en  equalled  e   never  been  ex- 

•  r  the  ci'  i.t,  golden  summer 

!;  8,  1884  ing  driven  out  from 

uti,  I  alii:'  ,arket-place  of  the  little 

'  iucknall-  ■•  a  pilgrimage  to  the  grave 

The  Li:  ...  M    .-.    Modern  and  commonplace  in 

..  -  ,  — a  stiagg] ing  collection  of  low  brick  dwell- 

-tly  occupied  by  collier".      On  that  day  it  ap- 

.-t    its  worst;  for   t;  osl  part  of    its  main 

was  filled  with  stalls,  benches,  wagons,  and  can- 

.vered  str.u  •  .^^j^^  \i)iA3iitcH^/S!^diH^etables  and 

comm  \>.  hich   were  thus,  offered  for  sale; 

:   was  _rh,  noisy,  and  dirty  per- 

ntent  er  and  traffic,  and  not  indisposed  to 

ous  pranks  and  mirth,  as  they  pushed  and  jostled 

■.uch    other,    among   the    crowded   booths.     This  main 

street  ends  at  the  wall  of  the  graveyard  in  which  stands 

the  little  gray  church  where  Byron  was  buried.     There 

is  an  iron  gate  in  the  centre  of  the  wall,  and  in  order 

to  reach  this  it  was  necessary  to  thread  the  mazes  of 

the  market-place,  and  to  push  aside  the  canvas  flaps  of 

a  peddler's  stall  which  had  been  placed  close  against  it. 

Next  to  the  churchyard  wall  is  a  little  cottage,^  with  its 

bit  of  garden,  devoted  in  this  instance  to  potatoes ;  and 

there,  while  waiting  for  the  seM  talked  with  an 

aged  man,  who  said  that  ed,  as  an  eye- 

^  Since  this  paper  was  written  the  buildings  that  flanked  the  church 
wall  have  been  removed,  the  street  in  front  of  it  has  been  widened,  and 
thfc  church  has  been  "restored"  and  considerably  altered. 


VIII  BYRON   AND    HUCKNALL-TORKARD   CHURCH         129 

witness,  the  funeral  of  Byron.  "  The  oldest  man  he 
seemed  that  ever  wore  gray  hairs."  He  stated  that  he 
was  eighty-two  and  that  his  name  was  William  Callan- 
dyne.  Pointing  to  the  church,  he  indicated  the  place  of 
the  Byron  vault.  "I  was  the  last  man,"  he  said,  "that 
went  down  into  it,  before  he  was  buried  there.  I  was  a 
young  fellow  then,  and  curious  to  see  what  was  going 
on.  The  place  was  full  of  skulls  and  bones.  I  wish 
you  could  see  my  son ;  he's  a  clever  lad,  only  he  ought 
to  have  more  of  the  snavitcr  in  modo.''  Thus,  with 
the  garrulity  of  wandering  age,  he  prattled  on  ;  but  his 
mind  was  clear  and  his  memory  tenacious  and  positive. 
There  is  a  good  prospect  from  the  region  of  Hucknall- 
Torkard  church,  and  pointing  into  the  distance,  when 
his  mind  had  been  brought  back  to  the  subject  of  Byron, 
my  venerable  acquaintance  now  described,  with  minute 
specification  of  road  and  lane,  —  seeming  to  assume 
that  the  names  and  the  turnings  were  familiar  to  his 
auditor,  —  the  course  of  the  funeral  train  from  Notting- 
ham to  the  church.  "  There  were  eleven  carriages,"  he 
said.  "They  didn't  go  to  the  Abbey"  (meaning  New- 
stead),  "but  came  directly  here.  There  were  many  peo- 
ple to  look  at  them.  I  remember  all  about  it,  and  I'm 
an  old  man  —  eighty-two.  You're  an  Italian,  I  should 
say,"  he  added.  By  this  time  the  sexton  had  come  and 
unlocked  the  gate,  and  parting  from  Mr.  Callandyne  we 
presently  made  our  way  into  the  church  of  St.  James, 
locking  the  churchyard  gate  behind  us,  to  exclude  rough 
and  possibly  mischievous  followers.  A  strange  and  sad 
contrast,  I  thought,  between  this  coarse  and  turbulent 
place,  by  a  malign  destiny  ordained  for  the  grave  of 
Byron,  and  that  peaceful,  lovely,  majestic  church  and 


130  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  viii 

precinct,    at    Stratford-upon-Avon,   which   enshrine  the 
dust  of  Shakespeare ! 

The  sexton  of  the  church  of  St.  James  and  the  parish 
clerk  of  Hucknall-Torkard  was  Mr.  John  Brown,  and  a 
man  of  sympathetic  intelligence,  kind  heart,  and  in- 
teresting character  I  found  him  to  be,  —  large,  dark, 
stalwart,  but  gentle  alike  in  manner  and  feeling,  and 
considerate  of  his  visitor.  The  pilgrim  to  the  literary 
shrines  of  England  does  not  always  find  the  neighbour- 
ing inhabitants  either  sympathetic  with  his  reverence  or 
conscious  of  especial  sanctity  or  interest  appertaining  to 
the  relics  which  they  possess ;  but  honest  and  manly 
John  Brown  of  Hucknall-Torkard  understood  both  the 
hallowing  charm  of  the  place  and  the  sentiment,  not  to 
say  the  profound  emotion,  of  the  traveller  who  now  be- 
held for  the  first  time  the  tomb  of  Byron.  This  church 
has  been  restored  and  altered  since  Byron  was  buried 
in  it,  in  1824,  yet  it  retains  its  fundamental  structure 
and  its  ancient  peculiarities.  The  tower,  a  fine  speci- 
men of  Norman  architecture,  strongly  built,  dark  and 
grim,  gives  indication  of  great  age.  It  is  of  a  kind 
often  met  with  in  ancient  English  towns  :  you  may  see 
its  brothers  at  York,  Shrewsbury,  Canterbury,  Worces- 
ter, Warwick,  and  in  many  places  sprinkled  over  the 
northern  heights  of  London :  but  amid  its  tame  sur- 
roundings in  this  little  colliery  settlement  it  looms  with 
a  peculiar  frowning  majesty,  a  certain  bleak  loneliness, 
both  unique  and  impressive.  The  church  is  of  the  cus- 
tomary crucial  form,  —  a  low  stone  structure,  peak- 
roofed  outside,  but  arched  within,  the  roof  being  sup- 
ported by  four  great  pillars  on  either  side  of  the  centre 
aisle,  and  the  ceiling  being  fashioned  of  heavy  timbers 


■'lid 


'<f^^J    ^      -'I' 


t4--*^2 


•"^--^Wfavi^piS 


132  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

forming  almost  a  true  arch  above  the  nave.  There  are 
four  large  windows  on  each  side  of  the  church,  and  two 
on  each  side  of  the  chancel,  which  is  beneath  a  roof 
somewhat  lower  than  that  of  the  main  building.  -Under 
the  pavement  of  the  chancel  and  back  of  the  altar  rail, 

—  at  which  it  was  my  privilege  to  kneel,  while  gazing 
upon  this  sacred  spot,  —  is  the  grave  of  Byron. ^  Noth- 
ing is  written  on  the  stone  that  covers  his  sepulchre 
except  the  name  of  BYRON,  with  the  dates  of  his 
birth  and  death,  in  brass  letters,  surrounded  by  a 
wreath  of  leaves,  in  brass,  the  gift  of  the  King  of 
Greece ;  and  never  did  a  name  seem  more  stately  or  a 
place  more  hallowed.  The  dust  of  the  poet  reposes 
between  that  of  his  mother,  on  his  right  hand,  and  that 
of  his  Ada,  —  "sole  daughter  of  my  house  and  heart,'.' 

—  on  his  left.  The  mother  died  on  August  i,  1811; 
the  daughter,  who  had  by  marriage  become  the  Coun- 
tess of  Lovelace,  in  1852.  "I  buried  her  with  my  own 
hands,"  said  the  sexton,  John  Brown,  when,  after  a  little 
time,  he  rejoined  me  at  the  altar  rail.  "I  told  them 
exactly  where  he  was  laid,  when  they  wanted  to  put 
that  brass  on  the  stone ;  I  remembered  it  well,  for  I 
lowered  the  coffin  of  the  Countess  of  Lovelace  into  this 
vault,  and  laid  her  by  her  father's  side."  And  when 
presently  we  went  into  a  little  vestry  he  produced  the 
Register  of  Burials  and  displayed  the  record  of  that 
interment,  in  the  following  words:  "  1852.  Died  at  69 
Cumberland  Place,  London.    Buried  December  3.    Aged 

^  Revisiting  this  place  on  September  lo,  1890,  I  found  that  the  chancel 
has  been  lengthened,  that  the  altar  and  the  mural  tablets  have  been  moved 
back  from  the  Byron  vault,  and  that  his  gravestone  is  now  outside  of  the 
rail. 


VIII  HYRON   AND    HUCKNALL-TORKARD   CHURCTI         133 

thirty-six.  —  Curtis  Jackson."  The  Byrons  were  a  short- 
lived race.  The  poet  himself  had  just  turned  thirty-six; 
his  mother  was  only  forty-six  when  she  passed  away. 
This  name  of  Curtis  Jackson  in  the  register  was  that  of 
the  rector  or  curate  then  incumbent  but  now  departed. 
The  register  is  a  long  narrow  book  made  of  parchment 
and  full  of  various  crabbed  handwritings,  —  a  record 
similar  to  those  which  are  so  carefully  treasured  at  the 
church  of  the  Holy  Trinity  at  Stratford ;  but  it  is  more 
dilapidated. 

Another  relic  shown  by  John  Brown  was  a  bit  of  em- 
broidery, presenting  the  arms  of  the  Byron  family.  It 
had  been  used  at  Byron's  funeral,  and  thereafter  was 
long  kept  in  the  church,  though  latterly  with  but  little 
care.  When  the  Rev.  Curtis  Jackson  came  there  he 
beheld  this  frail  memorial  with  pious  disapprobation. 
"He  told  me,"  said  the  sexton,  "to  take  it  home  and 
burn  it.  I  did  take  it  home,  but  I  didn't  burn  it ;  and 
when  the  new  rector  came  he  heard  of  it  and  asked  me 
to  bring  it  back,  and  a  lady  gave  the  frame  to  put  it  in." 
Framed  it  is,  and  likely  now  to  be  always  preserved  in 
this  interesting  church ;  and  earnestly  do  I  wish  that  I 
could  remember,  in  order  that  I  might  speak  it  with 
honour,  the  name  of  the  clergyman  who  could  thus 
rebuke  bigotry,  and  welcome  and  treasure  in  his  church 
that  shred  of  silk  which  once  rested  on  the  coffin  of 
Byron.  Still  another  relic  preserved  by  John  Brown 
is  a  large  piece  of  cardboard  bearing  the  inscription 
which  is  upon  the  coffin  of  the  poet's  mother,  and  which 
bore  some  part  in  the  obsequies  of  that  singular  woman, 
—  a  creature  full  of  faults,  but  the  parent  of  a  mighty 
genius,  and  capable  of    inspiring  deep  love.       On  the 


134  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

night  after  Byron  arrived  at  Newstead,  whither  he  re- 
paired from  London,  on  receiving  news  of  her  illness, 
only  to  find  her  dead,  he  was  found  sitting  in  the  dark 
and  sobbing  beside  the  corse.  "  I  had  but  one  friend 
in  the  world,"  he  said,  "and  she  is  gone."  He  was 
soon  to  publish  Cliildc  Harold,  and  to  gain  hosts  of 
friends  and  have  the  world  at  his  feet ;  but  he  spoke 
what  he  felt,  and  he  spoke  the  truth,  in  that  dark  room 
on  that  desolate  night.  Thoughts  of  these  things,  and 
of  many  other  strange  passages  and  incidents  in  his 
brief,  checkered,  glorious,  lamentable  life,  thronged 
into  my  mind  as  I  stood  there,  in  presence  of  those 
relics  and  so  near  his  dust,  while  the  church  grew  dark 
and  the  silence  seemed  to  deepen  in  the  dusk  of  the 
gathering  night. 

They  have  for  many  years  kept  a  book  at  the  church 
of  Hucknall-Torkard  [the  first  one,  an  album  given  by 
Sir  John  Bowring,  containing  the  record  of  visita- 
tions from  1825  to  1834,  disappeared^  in  the  latter 
year,  or  soon  after],  in  which  the  visitors  write  their 
names ;  but  the  catalogue  of  pilgrims  during  the  last 
fifty  years  is  not  a  long  one.  The  votaries  of  Byron 
are  far  less  numerous  than  those  of  Shakespeare.  Cu.s- 
tom  has  made  the  visit  to  Stratford  "  a  property  of  easi- 
ness," and  Shakespeare  is  a  safe  no  less  than  a  rightful 
object  of  worship.  The  visit  to  Hucknall-Torkard  is 
neither  so  easy  nor  so  agreeable,  and  it  requires  some 
courage  to  be  a  votary  of  Byron,  —  and  to  own  it.  No 
day  passes  without  bringing  its  visitor  to  the   Shake- 

1  It  is  now,  1896,  said  to  be  in  the  possession  of  a  resident  of  one  of 
our  Southern  cities,  who  says  that  he  obtained  it  from  one  of  his  relatives, 
to  whom  it  was  given  by  the  parish  clerk,  in  1834. 


VIII 


BYRON   AND    HUCKNALL-TORKARD   CHURCH 


135 


spcarc  cottage  and  the  Shakespeare  tomb;  many  days 
pass  without  bringing  a  stranger  to  the  church  of  St. 
James.  On  the  capital  of  a  column  near  Byron's  tomb 
I  saw  two  mouldering  wreaths  of  laurel,  which  had  hung 
there  for  several  years ;  one  brought  by  the  Bishop  of 
Norwich,  the  other  by  the  American  poet  Joaquin  Miller. 
It  was  good  to  see  them,  and  especially  to   see  them 


Hucknall-  Torkard  Church  —  Interior. 


close  by  the  tablet  of  white  marble  which  was  placed  on 
that  church  wall  to  commemorate  the  poet,  and  to  be 
her  witness  in  death,  by  his  loving  and  beloved  sister 
Augusta  Mary  Leigh,  —  a  name  that  is  the  synonym  of 
noble  fidelity,  a  name  that  in  our  day  cruel  detraction 
and  hideous  calumny  have  done  their  worst  to  tarnish. 


136  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


That  tablet  names  him  "The  Author  of  Childe  Harold's 
Pilgrimage";  and  if  the  conviction  of  thoughtful  men 
and  women  throughout  the  world  can  be  accepted  as 
an  authority,  no  name  in  the  long  annals  of  English 
literature  is  more  certain  of  immortality  than  the  name 
of  Byron.     People  mention  the  poetry  of  Spenser  and 
Cowley  and   Dryden  and   Cowper,  but   the    poetry  of 
Byron   they  read.     His  reputation  can   afford  the   ab- 
sence of  all  memorial  to  him  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and 
it  can  endure  the  neglect  and  censure  of  the  precinct 
of  Nottingham.     That  city  rejoices  in  a  stately  castle 
throned   upon    a   rock,    and    persons    who   admire   the 
Stuarts    may  exult   in    the  recollection  that  there  the 
standard  of  Charles  the  First  was  unfurled,  in  his  fatal 
war  with  the  Parliament  of  England ;  but  all  that  really 
hallows  it  for  the  stranger  of  to-day  and  for  posterity  is 
its  association  with  the  name  of  Byron.     The  stranger 
will  look  in  vain,  however,  for  any  adequate  sign  of  his  for- 
mer association  with  that  place.     It  is  difficult  even  to  find 
prints  or  photographs  of  the  Byron  shrines,  in  the  shops 
of  Nottingham.     One  dealer,  from  whom  I  bought  all 
the  Byron  pictures  that  he  possessed,  was  kind  enough 
to    explain   the    situation,  in  one   expressive  sentence : 
"  Much  more  ought  to  be  done  here  as  to  Lord  Byron's 
memory,  that  is  the  truth  ;  but  the  fact  is,  the  first  fami- 
lies of  the  county  don't  approve  of  him." 

When  we  came  again  into  the  churchyard,  with  its 
many  scattered  graves  and  its  quaint  stones  and  crosses 
leaning  every  way,  and  huddled  in  a  strange  kind  of  or- 
derly confusion,  the  great  dark  tower  stood  out  bold  and 
solitary  in  the  gloaming,  and  a  chill  wind  of  evening  had 
begun  to  moan  around  its  pinnacles,  and  through  its  mys- 


VIII         BYRON   AND    IIUCKNALL-TORKAKD   CHURCH         [37 

terious  belfry  windows,  and  in   the  few  trees  near  by, 
which  gave  forth  a  mournful  whisper.      It  was  hard  to 
leave  the  place,  and  for  a  long  time  I  stood  near  the 
chapel,  just  above  the  outer  wall  of  the  Byron  vault. 
And  there  the  sexton  told  me  the  story  of  the  White 
Lady,  —  pointing,  as  he  spoke,  to  a  cottage  abutting  on 
the  churchyard,  one  window  in  which  commands  a  clear 
view  of  the  place  of  Byron's  grave.      [That  house  has 
since  been  removed.]     "There  she  lived,"  he  said,  "  and 
there  she  died,  and    there,"  pointing  to  an   unmarked 
grave    near   the    pathway,   about    thirty  feet  from  the 
Byron  vault,  "  I  buried  her."     It  is  impossible  to  give  his 
words  or  to  indicate  his  earnest  manner.     In  brief,  this 
lady,  whose  past  no  one  knew,  had  taken  up  her  resi- 
dence in  this  cottage  long  subsequent  to  the  burial  of 
Byron,   and  had  remained  there  until  she  died.      She 
was  pale,  thin,  handsome,  and  she  wore  white  garments. 
Her  face  was  often  to  be  seen  at  that  window,  whether 
by  night  or  day,  and  she  seemed  to  be  watching  the 
tomb.     Once,  when  masons  were  repairing  the  church 
wall,  she  was  enabled  to  descend  into  that  vault,  and 
therefrom  she  obtained  a  skull,  which  she  declared  to 
be  Byron's,  and  which  she  scraped,  polished,  and  made 
perfectly  white,  and   kept  always  beneath   her  pillow. 
It  was  her  request,  often  made  to  the  sexton,  that  she 
might  be  buried  in  the  churchyard,  close  to  the  wall  of 
the  poet's  tomb.     "When  at  last  she  died,"  said  John 
Brown,  "  they  brought  that  skull  to  me,  and  I  buried  it 
there  in  the  ground.     It  was   one  of  the  loose  skulls 
from  the  old  vault.     She  thought  it  was  Byron's,  and  it 
pleased  her  to  think  so.     I  might  have  laid  her  close  to 
this  wall.     I  don't  know  why  I  didn't." 


138  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

In  those  words  the  sexton's  story  ended.  It  was  only 
one  more  of  the  myriad  hmts  of  that  romance  which  the 
Hfe  and  poetry  of  Byron  have  so  widely  created  and 
diffused.  I  glanced  around  for  some  relic  of  the  place 
that  might  properly  be  taken  away  :  there  was  neither 
an  ivy  leaf  shining  upon  the  wall  nor  a  flower  growing 
in  all  that  ground;  but  into  a  crevice  of  the  rock,  just 
above  his  tomb,  the  wind  had  at  some  time  blown  a 
little  earth,  and  in  this  a  few  blades  of  grass  were  thinly 
rooted.  These  I  gathered,  and  still  possess,  as  a  me- 
mento of  an  evening  at  Byron's  grave. 

Note  on  the  Missing  Register  of  Hucknall- 
ToRKARD  Church 

The  Album  that  was  given  to  Hucknall-Torkard 
church,  in  1825,  by  Sir  John  Bowring,  to  be  used  as  a 
register  of  the  names  of  visitors  to  Byron's  tomb,  disap- 
peared from  that  church  in  the  year  1834,  or  soon  after, 
and  it  is  supposed  to  have  been  stolen.  In  1834  its 
contents  were  printed,  —  from  a  manuscript  copy  of  it, 
which  had  been  obtained  from  the  sexton,  —  in  a  book 
of  selections  from  Byron's  prose,  edited  by  "J.  M.  L." 
Those  initials  stand  for  the  name  of  Joseph  Munt  Lang- 
ford,  who  died  in  1884.  The  dedication  of  the  register 
is  in  the  following  words  :  "  To  the  immortal  and  illus- 
trious fame  of  Lord  Byron,  the  first  poet  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  these  tributes,  weak  and  unworthy  of 
him,  but  in  themselves  sincere,  are  inscribed  with  the 
deepest  reverence. — July  1825."  At  that  time  no 
memorial  of  any  kind  had  been  placed  in  the  church  to 
mark  the  poet's  sepulchre  :  a  fact  which  prompted  Sir 
John  Bowring  to  begin  his  Album  with  twenty-eight 
lines  of  verse,  of  which  these  are  the  best : 


VIII  BYRON   AND    HUCKNALL-TORKARI)   CHURCH         139 

"A  still,  resistless  influence, 
Unseen  but  felt,  binds  up  the  sense  .   .  . 
And  though  the  master  hand  is  cold, 
And  though  the  lyre  it  once  controlled 
Rests  mute  in  death,  yet  from  the  gloom 
Which  dwells  about  this  holy  tomb 
Silence  breathes  out  more  eloquent 
Than  epitaph  or  monument." 

This  register  was  used  from  1825  till  1834.  It  con- 
tains eight  hundred  and  fifteen  names,  with  which  are 
intertwined  twenty-eight  inscriptions  in  verse  and  thirty- 
six  in  prose.  The  first  name  is  that  of  Count  Pietro 
Gamba,  who  visited  his  friend's  grave  on  January  31, 
1825  :  but  this  must  have  been  a  reminiscent  memoran- 
dum, as  the  book  was  not  opened  till  the  following  July. 
The  next  entry  was  made  by  Byron's  old  servant,  the 
date  being  September  23,  1825:  "William  Fletcher 
visited  his  ever-to-be-lamented  lord  and  master's  tomb." 
On  September  21,  1828,  the  following  singular  record 
was  written  :  "Joseph  Carr,  engraver,  Hound's  Gate, 
Nottingham,  visited  this  place  for  the  first  time  to  wit- 
ness the  funeral  of  Lady  Byron  [mother  of  the  much 
lamented  late  Lord  Byron],  August  9th,  181 1,  whose 
coffin-plate  I  engraved,  and  now  I  once  more  revisit  the 
spot  to  drop  a  tear  as  a  tribute  of  unfeigned  respect  to 
the  mortal  remains  of  that  noble  British  bard.  '  Tho' 
lost  to  sight,  to  memory  dear.' "  The  next  notable 
entry  is  that  of  September  3,  1829:  "Lord  Byron's 
sister,  the  Honourable  Augusta  Mary  Leigh,  visited 
this  church."  Under  the  date  of  January  8,  1832,  are 
found  the  names  of  "  M.  Van  Buren,  Minister  Plenipo- 
tentiary from  the  United  States ;  Washington  Irving ; 
John  Van  Buren,  New  York,  U.S.A.,  and  J.  Wildman." 


140  GRAY   DAYS  AND   GOLD  chap,  viii 

The  latter  was  Colonel  Wildman,  the  proprietor  of 
Newstead  Abbey,  Byron's  old  home,  now  owned  by 
Colonel  Webb.  On  August  5,  1832,  "Mr.  Bunn,  mana- 
ger of  Drury  Lane  theatre,  honoured  by  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  illustrious  poet,  visited  Lord  Byron's  tomb, 
with  a  party."  Edward  F.  Flower  and  Selina  Flower, 
of  Stratford-upon-Avon,  record  their  presence,  on  Sep- 
tember 15,  1832, — the  parents  of  Charles  Edward 
Flower  and  Edgar  Flower,  of  Stratford,  the  former 
being  the  founder  of  the  Shakespeare  Memorial.  There 
are  several  eccentric  tributes  in  the  register,  but  the 
most  of  them  are  feeble.  One  of  the  better  kind  is 
this: 

"  Not  in  that  palace  where  the  dead  repose 
In  splendid  holiness,  where  Time  has  spread 
His  sombre  shadows,  and  a  halo  glows 
Around  the  ashes  of  the  mighty  dead, 
Life's  weary  pilgrim  rests  his  aching  head. 
This  is  his  resting-place,  and  save  his  own 
No  light,  no  glory  round  his  grave  is  shed  : 
But  memory  journeys  to  his  shrine  alone 
To  mark  how  sound  he  sleeps,  beneath  yon  simple  stone. 

"  Ah,  say,  art  thou  ambitious  ?  thy  young  breast  — 
Oh,  does  it  pant  for  honours?  dost  thou  chase 
The  phantom  Fame,  in  fairy  colours  drest, 
E.xpecting  all  the  while  to  win  the  race? 
Oh,  does  the  flush  of  youth  adorn  thy  face 
And  dost  thou  deem  it  lasting?  dost  thou  crave 
The  hero's  wreath,  the  poet's  meed  of  praise? 
Learn  that  of  this,  these,  all,  not  one  can  save 
From  the  chill  hand  of  death.     Behold  Childe  Harold's 
grave!" 


CHAPTER    IX 


HISTORIC    NOOKS    OF    WARWICKSHIRE 


TRATFORD-UPON-AVON,  August  20, 
1889.  —  The  traveller  who  hurries  through 
Warwickshire,  —  and  American  travellers 
mostly  do  hurry  through  it,  —  appreciates 
but  little  the  things  that  he  sees,  and  does 
not  understand  how  much  he  loses.  The  customary 
course  is  to  lodge  at  the  Red  Horse,  which  is  one  of  the 
most  comfortable  houses  in  England,  and  thus  to  enjoy 
the  associations  that  are  connected  with  the  visits  of 
Washington  Irving.  His  parlour,  his  bedroom  (num- 
ber 15),  his  arm-chair,  his  poker,  and  the  sexton's 
clock,  mentioned  by  him  in  the  Sketch  Book,  are  all  to 
be  seen,  if  your  lightning-express  conductor  will  give 
you  time  enough  to  see  them.  From  the  Red  Horse 
you  are  taken  in  a  carriage,  when  you  ought  to  be  al- 
lowed to  proceed  on  foot,  and  the  usual  round  includes 
the  Shakespeare  Birthplace  ;  the  Grammar  School  and 
Guild  chapel  ;  the  remains  of  New  Place ;  Trinity 
church  and  the  Shakespeare  graves  in  its  chancel ; 
Anne  Hathaway's  cottage  at  Shottery ;  and,  perhaps, 
the  Shakespeare  Memorial  library  and  theatre.     These 

141 


142 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


are  impressive  sights  to  the  lover  of  Shakespeare ;  but 
when  you  have  seen  all  these  you  have  only  begun  to 
see  the  riches  of  Stratford-upon-Avon.  It  is  only  by 
living  in  the  town,  by  making  yourself  familiar  with  it 
in  all  its  moods,  by  viewing  it  in  storm  as  well  as  in 
sunshine,  by  roaming  through  its  quaint,  deserted  streets 
in  the  lonely  hours  of  the  night,  by  sailing  up  and  down 


The  Red  Horse  Hotel. 

the  beautiful  Avon,  by  driving  and  walking  in  the 
green  lanes  that  twine  about  it  for  many  miles  in  every 
direction,  by  becoming,  in  fact,  a  part  of  its  actual 
being,  that  you  obtain  a  genuine  knowledge  of  that 
delightful  place.  Familiarity,  in  this  case,  does  not 
breed  contempt.     The   worst   you   will   ever   learn   of 


IX  HISTORIC   NOOKS    OF    WARWICKSHIRE 


143 


Stratford  is  that  gossip  thrives  in  it ;  that  its  intel- 
lect is,  with  due  exception,  narrow  and  sleepy  ;  and 
that  it  is  heavily  ridden  by  the  ecclesiastical  establish- 
ment. You  will  never  find  anything  that  can  detract 
from  the  impression  of  beauty  and  repose  made  upon 
your  mind  by  the  sweet  retirement  ot  its  situation,  by 
the  majesty  of  its  venerable  monuments,  and  by  the 
opulent,  diversified  splendours  of  its  natural  and  his- 
torical environment.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  you 
know  of  those  charms  the  more  you  will  love  the  town, 
and  the  greater  will  be  the  benefit  of  high  thought  and 
spiritual  exaltation  that  you  will  derive  from  your 
knowledge  of  it ;  and  hence  it  is  important  that  the 
American  traveller  should  be  counselled  for  his  own 
sake  to  live  a  little  while  in  Stratford  instead  of  treating 
it  as  an  incident  of  his  journey. 

The  occasion  of  a  garden  party  at  the  rectory  of  a 
clerical  friend  at  Butler's  Marston  gave  opportunity  to 
see  one  of  the  many  picturesque  and  happy  homes 
with  which  this  region  abounds.  The  lawns  there  are 
ample  and  sumptuous.  The  dwelling  and  the  church, 
which  are  close  to  each  other,  are  bowered  in  great 
trees.  From  the  terraces  a  lovely  view  may  be  ob- 
tained of  the  richly  coloured  and  finely  cultivated  fields, 
stretching  away  toward  Edgehill,  which  lies  southeast 
from  Stratford-upon-Avon  about  sixteen  miles  away,  and 
marks  the  beginning  of  the  Vale  of  the  Red  Horse.  In 
the  churchyard  are  the  gray,  lichen-covered  remains  of 
one  of  those  ancient  crosses  from  the  steps  of  which 
the  monks  preached,  in  the  early  days  of  the  church. 
Relics  of  this  class  are  deeply  interesting  for  what  they 
suggest  of  the  people  and  the  life  of  earlier  times.     A 


144 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 


fine  specimen  of  the  ancient  cross  may  be  seen  at 
Henley-in-Arden,  a  few  miles  northwest  of  Stratford, 
where  it  stands,  in  mouldering  majesty  in  the  centre 
of  the  village,  —  strangely  inharmonious  with  the  petty 
shops  and  numerous  inns  of  which  that  long  and 
straggling  but  characteristic  and  attractive  settlement 
is  composed.  The  tower  of  the  church  at  Butler's 
Marston,  a  gray,  grim  structure,  "four-square  to  oppo- 
sition," was  built  in  the  eleventh  century,  —  a  period 
of  much  ecclesiastical  activity  in  the  British  islands. 
Within  it  I  found  a  noble  pulpit,  of  carved  oak,  dark 
with  age,  of  the  time  of  James  the  First.  There  are 
many  commemorative  stones  in  the  church,  on  one  of 
which  appears  this  lovely  couplet,  addressed  to  the 
shade  of  a  young  girl : 

"  Sleep,  gentle  soul,  and  wait  thy  Maker's  will! 
Then  rise  unchanged,  and  be  an  angel  still." 

The  present  village  of  Butler's  Marston,  —  a  little 
group  of  cottages  clustered  upon  the  margin  of  a  tiny 
stream  and  almost  hidden  in  a  wooded  dell,  —  is  com- 
paratively new ;  for  it  has  arisen  since  the  time  of  the 
Puritan  civil  war.  The  old  village  was  swept  away  by 
the  Roundheads,  when  Essex  and  Hampden  came  down 
to  fight  King  Charles  at  Edgehill,  in  1642.  That  fierce 
strife  raged  all  along  the  country-side,  and  you  may  still 
perceive  there,  in  the  inequalities  of  the  land,  the  sites  on 
which  houses  formerly  stood.  It  is  a  sweet  and  peace- 
ful place  now,  smiling  with  flowers  and  musical  with 
the  rustle  of  the  leaves  of  giant  elms.  The  clergyman 
farms  his  own  glebe,  and  he  has  expended  more  than 
a  thousand    pounds   in    the  renovation   of    his   manse. 


IX  HISTORIC   NOOKS   OP^   WARWICKSHIRE  145 

The  church  *'  living  "  is  not  worth  much  more  than  a 
hundred  pounds  a  year,  and  when  he  leaves  the  dwell- 
insf,  if  he  should  ever  leave  it,  he  loses  the  value  of  all 
the  improvements  that  he  has  made.  This  he  men- 
tioned with  a  contented  smile.  The  place,  in  fact,  is 
a  little  paradise,  and  as  I  looked  across  the  green  and 
golden  fields,  and  saw  the  herds  at  rest  and  the  wheat 
waving  in  sun  and  shadow,  and  thought  of  the  simple 
life  of  the  handful  of  people  congregated  here,  the 
words  of  Gray  came  murmuring  into  my  mind  : 

"  Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way." 

"  Unregarded  age,  in  corners  thrown."  Was  that 
fine  line  suggested  to  Shakespeare  by  the  spectacle 
of  the  almshouses  of  the  Guild,  which  stood  in  his 
time,  just  as  they  stand  now,  close  to  the  spot  where  he 
lived  and  died  ?  New  Place,  Shakespeare's  home,  stood 
on  the  northeast  corner  of  Chapel  street  and  Chapel 
lane.  The  Guild  chapel  stands  on  the  southeast  cor- 
ner of  those  streets,  immediately  opposite  to  what  was 
once  the  poet's  home.  Southward  from  the  chapel,  and 
adjoining  to  it,  extends  the  long,  low,  sombre  building 
that  contains  the  Free  Grammar  School,  founded  by 
Thomas  Jolyffe  in  1482,  and  refounded  in  1553  by  King 
Edward  the  Sixth.  In  that  grammar  school,  there  is 
reason  to  believe,  Shakespeare  was  educated ;  at  first 
by  Walter  Roche,  afterward  by  Simon  Hunt, —  who 
doubtless  birched  the  little  boys  then,  even  as  the 
head-master  does  now ;    it  being   a   cardinal   principle 

K 


CHAP.  IX        HISTORIC   NOOKS   OF   WARWICKSHIRE 


147 


with  the  British  educator  that  learning,  like  other 
goods,  should  be  delivered  in  the  rear.  In  those  alms- 
houses doubtless  there  were  many  forlorn  inmates,  even 
as  there  are  at  present,  —  and  Shakespeare  must  often 
have  seen  them.  On  visiting  one  of  the  bedesmen  I 
found  him  moving  slowly,  with  that  mild,  aimless,  inert 
manner  and  that  bleak  aspect  peculiar  to  such  remnants 
of  vanishing  life,  among  the  vegetable  vines  and  the 


^^*.^. 


Interior  of  the   Grammar  School. 

profuse,  rambling  flowers  in  the  sunny  garden  behind 
the  house  ;  and  presently  I  went  into  his  humble  room 
and  sat  by  his  fireside.  The  scene  was  the  perfect  ful- 
filment of  Shakespeare's  line.  A  stone  floor.  A  low 
ceiling  crossed  with  dusky  beams.  Walls  that  had  been 
whitewashed  long  ago.  A  small  iron  kettle,  with  water 
in  it,  simmering  over  a  few  smouldering  coals.     A  rough 


148  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

bed,  in  a  corner.  A  little  table,  on  which  were  three 
conch-shells  ranged  in  a  row.  An  old  arm-chair,  on 
which  were  a  few  coarse  wads  of  horsehair,  as  a  cush- 
ion. A  bench,  whereon  lay  a  torn,  tattered,  soiled  copy 
of  the  prayer  book  of  the  church  of  England,  beginning 
at  the  epiphany.  This  sumptuous  place  was  lighted  by 
a  lattice  of  small  leaded  panes.  And  upon  one  of  the 
walls  hung  a  framed  placard  of  worsted  work,  bearing 
the  inscription,  "  Blessed  be  the  Lord  for  His  Unspeak- 
able Gift."  The  aged,  infirm  pensioner  doddered  about 
the  room,  and  when  he  was  asked  what  had  become  of 
his  wife  his  dull  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  he  said  sim- 
ply that  she  was  dead.  "  So  runs  the  world  away." 
The  summons  surely  cannot  be  unwelcome  that  calls 
such  an  old  and  lonely  pilgrim  as  that  to  his  rest  in 
yonder  churchyard  and  to  his  lost  wife  who  is  waiting 
for  him. 

Warwickshire  is  hallowed  by  shining  names  of  per- 
sons illustrious  in  the  annals  of  art.  Drayton,  Greene, 
and  Heminge,  who  belong  to  the  Shakespeare  period, 
were  born  there.  Walter  Savage  Landor  was  a  native 
of  Warwick,  —  in  which  quaint  and  charming  town  you 
may  see  the  house  of  his  birth,  duly  marked.  Croft, 
the  composer,  was  born  near  Ettington,  hard  by  Strat- 
ford :  there  is  a  tiny  monument,  commemorative  of  him, 
in  the  ruins  of  Ettington  church,  near  the  manor-house 
of  Shirley.  And  in  our  own  day  Warwickshire  has 
enriched  the  world  with  "  George  Eliot "  and  with 
that  matchless  actress,  —  the  one  Ophelia  and  the  one 
Beatrice  of  our  age  —  Ellen  Terry.  But  it  is  a  chief 
characteristic  of  England  that  whichever  way  you 
turn    in    it    your    footsteps    fall    on    haunted    ground. 


IX  HISTORIC  NOOKS   OF   WARWICKSHIRE  149 

Everyday  life  here  is  continually  impressed  by  inci- 
dents of  historic  association.  In  an  old  church  at 
Greenwich  I  asked  that  I  might  be  directed  to  the 
tomb  of  General  Wolfe.  "  He  is  buried  just  beneath 
where  you  are  now  standing,"  the  custodian  said.  It 
was  an  elderly  woman  who  showed  the  place,  and  she 
presently  stated  that  when  a  girl  she  once  entered  the 
vault  beneath  that  church  and  stood  beside  the  coffin 
of  General  Wolfe  and  took  a  piece  of  laurel  from  it,  and 
also  took  a  piece  of  the  red  velvet  pall  from  the  coffin 
of  the  old  Duchess  of  Bolton,  close  by.  That  Duchess 
was  Lavinia  Fenton,  the  first  representative  of  Polly 
Peachem,  in  TJie  Beggars'  Opera,  who  died  in  1 760,  aged 
fifty-two.^  "  Lord  Clive,"  the  dame  added,  "  is  buried 
in  the  same  vault  with  Wolfe."  An  impressive  thought, 
that  the  ashes  of  the  man  who  established  Britain's 
power  in  America  should  at  last  mingle  with  the  ashes 
of  the  man  who  gave  India  to  England  ! 

1  Dr.  Joseph  Wharton,  in  a  letter  to  the  poet  Gay,  described  Lavinia 
Fenton  as  follows  :  "  She  was  a  very  accomplished  and  most  agreeable 
companion;  had  much  wit,  good  strong  sense,  and  a  just  taste  in  polite 
literature.  Her  person  was  agreeable  and  well  made;  though  I  think  she 
could  never  be  called  a  beauty.  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  being  at  table 
with  her  when  her  conversation  was  much  admired  by  the  first  characters 
of  the  age,  particularly  old  Lord  Bathurst  and  Lord  Granville." 

General  James  Wolfe,  killed  in  battle,  at  the  famous  storming  of 
Queljec,  was  born  in   1726,  and  he  died  in  1759. 

Robert  Clive,  the  famous  soldier  and  the  first  Lord  Clive,  was  born  in 
1725,  and  he  died,  a  suicide,  —  haunted,  it  was  superstitiously  said,  by 
ghosts  of  slaughtered   East  Indians, —  in  1774. 


^■^ 


mi^mm^M0^ 


CHAPTER   X 


SHAKESPEARE  S    TOWN 

O  traverse  Stratford-upon-Avon  is  to  re- 
turn upon  old  tracks,  but  no  matter  how 
often  you  visit  that  delightful  place  you 
will  always  see  new  sights  in  it  and  find 
new  incidents.  After  repeated  visits  to 
Shakespeare's  town  the  traveller  begins 
to  take  more  notice  than  perhaps  at  first  he  did  of  its 
everyday  life.  In  former  days  the  observer  had  no  eyes 
except  for  the  Shakespeare  shrines.  The  addition  of  a 
new  wing  to  the  ancient,  storied,  home-like  Red  Horse, 
the  new  gardens  around  the  Memorial  theatre,  the  com- 
pleted chime  of  Trinity  bells, — these,  and  matters  like  to 
these,  attract»attention  now.  And  now,  too,  I  have  ram- 
bled, in  the  gloaming,  through  scented  fields  to  Clifford 
church  ;  and  strolled  through  many  a  green  lane  to  beau- 
tiful Preston  ;  and  climbed  Borden  hill ;  and  stood  by  the 
maypole  on  Welford  common  ;  and  journeyed  along  the 
battle-haunted  crest  of  Edgehill ;  and  rested  at  vener- 
able Compton-Wynyate ;  ^  and  climbed  the  hills  of  Wel- 

1  The  romantic  house  of  Compton  Wynyate  was  built  of  material  taken 
from  a  ruined  castle  at  Fulbrooke,  by  Sir  William  Compton,  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  the  Eighth.     Wynyate  signifies  a  vineyard. 


CHAP.  X  SHAKESPEARE'S   TOWN  I  5  i 

combe  to  peer  into  the  darkening  valleys  of  the  Avon 
and  hear  the  cuckoo-note  echoed  and  re-echoed  from 
rhododendron  groves,  and  from  the  great,  mysterious 
elms  that  embower  this  country-side  for  miles  and  miles 
around.  This  is  the  life  of  Stratford  to-day, — the  fer- 
tile farms,  the  garnished  meadows,  the  avenues  of  white 
and  coral  hawthorn,  masses  of  milky  snow-ball,  honey- 
suckle and  syringa  loading  the  soft  air  with  fragrance, 
chestnuts  dropping  blooms  of  pink  and  white,  and  labur- 
nums swinging  their  golden  censers  in  the  breeze. 

The  building  that  forms  the  southeast  corner  of  High 
street  and  Bridge  street  in  Stratford  was  once  occupied 
by  Thomas  Quiney,  a  wine-dealer,  who  married  the 
poet's  youngest  daughter,  Judith,  a^id  an  inscription  ap- 
pears upon  it,  stating  that  Judith  lived  in  it  for  thirty- 
six  years.  Richard  Savage,  that  competent,  patient, 
diligent  student  of  the  church  registers  and  other  docu- 
mentary treasures  of  Warwickshire,  furnished  the  proof 
of  this  fact,  from  investigation  of  the  town  records  — 
which  is  but  one  of  many  services  that  he  has  rendered 
to  the  old  home  of  Shakespeare.  The  Quiney  premises 
are  now  occupied  by  Edward  Fox,  a  journalist,  a  printer, 
and  a  dealer  in  souvenirs  of  Shakespeare  and  of  Strat- 
ford. That  house,  in  old  times,  was  officially  styled  The 
Cage,  because  it  had  been  used  as  a  prison.  Standing 
in  the  cellar  of  it  you  perceive  that  its  walls  are  four 
feet  thick.  There  likewise  are  seen  traces  of  the 
grooves  down  which  the  wine-casks  were  rolled,  in  the 
days  of  Shakespeare's  son-in-law,  Thomas  Quiney.  The 
business  now  carried  on  by  Edward  Fox  has  been  estab- 
lished in  Stratford  more  than  a  hundred  years,  and,  as 
this  tenant  has  a  long  lease  of  the  building  and  is  of 


n 


Trinity  Church  —  Stratford-upon-Avon. 


CHAP.  X  SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN  1 53 

an  energetic  spirit  in  his  pursuits,  it  bids  fair  to  last  as 
much  longer.  An  indication  of  Mr.  Fox's  sagacity  was 
revealed  to  me  in  the  cellar,  where  was  heaped  a  quan- 
tity of  old  oak,  taken,  in  1887,  from  the  belfry  of  Trin- 
ity church,  in  which  Shakespeare  is  buried.  This  oak, 
which  was  there  when  Shakespeare  lived,  and  which  had 
to  be  removed  because  a  stronger  structure  was  required 
for  sustaining  an  augmented  chime  of  heavy  bells,  will 
be  converted  into  various  carved  relics,  such  as  must  find 
favour  with  Shakespeare  worshippers,  —  of  whom  more 
than  sixteen  thousand  visited  Stratford  in  1887,  at  least 
one-fourth  of  that  number  [4482]  being  Americans.  A 
cross  made  of  the  belfry  wood  is  a  pleasing  souvenir  of 
the  hallowed  Shakespeare  church.  When  the  poet  saw 
that  church  the  tower  was  surmounted,  not  as  now  with 
a  graceful  stone  spire,  but  with  a  spire  of  timber,  cov- 
ered with  lead.  This  was  removed,  and  was  replaced 
by  the  stone  spire,  in  1763.  The  oak  frame  to  support 
the  bells,  however,  had  been  in  the  tower  more  than 
three  hundred  years. 

The  two  sculptured  groups,  emblematic  of  Comedy 
and  Tragedy,  which  have  been  placed  upon  the  front 
of  the  Shakespeare  Memorial  theatre,  are  the  gain  of 
a  benefit  performance,  given  in  that  building  on  August 
29,  1885,  by  Miss  Mary  Anderson,^  who  then,  for  the 
first  time  in  her  life,  impersonated  Shakespeare's  Rosa- 
lind. That  actress,  after  her  first  visit  to  Stratford,  — 
a  private  visit  made  in  1883,  —  manifested  a  deep  in- 

1  Miss  Mary  Anderson,  the  distinguished  American  actress,  was  mar- 
ried, on  June  17,  1890,  at  Hampstead,  to  Mr.  Antonio  De  Navarro.  Her 
Autobiography,  called  A  Feiv  Memories  of  Afy  Life,  was  published,  in 
London,  in  March,   1896. 


154 


GRAY  DAYS  AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


terest  in  the  town,  and  because  of  her  services  to  the 
Shakespeare  Memorial  she  is  now  one  of  its  life-govern- 
ors. Those  services  completed  the  exterior  decorations 
of  the  building.  The  emblem  of  History  had  already- 
been  put  in  its  place,  —  the  scene  in  King  John  in  which 
Prince  Arthur  melts  the  cruel  purpose  of  Hubert  to  burn 
out  his  eyes.  Tragedy  is  represented  by  Hamlet  and  the 
Gravedigger,  in  their  colloquy  over  Yorick's  skull.     In 


The  Shakespeare  Memorial   Theatre. 


the  emblem  of  Comedy  the  figure  of  Rosalind  is  that  of 
Miss  Mary  Anderson,  in  a  boy's  dress,  —  a  figure  that 
may  be  deemed  inadequate  to  the  original,  but  one  that 
certainly  is  expressive  of  the  ingenuous  demeanour  and 
artless  grace  of  that  gentle  lady.  The  grounds  south  of 
the  Memorial  are  diversified  and  adorned  with  lawns, 
trees,  flowers,  and  commodious  pathways,  and  that 
lovely,   park-like    enclosure,  —  thus   beautified    through 


X  SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN  '  155 

the  liberality  of  Charles  Edward  Flower  [obiit,  May 
3,  1892],  the  original  promoter  of  the  Memorial,  —  is 
now  free  to  the  people,  "to  walk  abroad  and  recreate 
themselves"  beside  the  Avon.  The  picture  gallery  of 
the  Memorial  lacks  many  things  that  are  needed.  The 
library  continues  to  grow,  but  the  American  depart- 
ment of  it  needs  accessions.  Every  American  edition 
of  Shakespeare  ought  to  be  there,  and  every  book  of 
American  origin,  on  a  Shakespeare  subject.  It  was  at 
one  time  purposed  to  set  up  a  special  case,  surmounted 
with  the  American  ensign,  for  the  reception  of  con- 
tributions from  Americans.  The  library  contained,  in 
March,  1890,  five  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety 
volumes,  in  various  languages.  [Now,  in  1896,  it  com- 
prises about  eight  thousand  volumes.]  Of  English 
editions  of  the  complete  works  of  Shakespeare  it  con- 
tains two  hundred  and  nine.  A  Russian  translation  of 
Shakespeare,  in  nine  volumes,  appears  in  the  collection, 
together  with  three  complete  editions  in  Dutch.  An 
elaborate  and  beautiful  catalogue  of  those  treasures, 
made  by  Mr.  Frederic  Hawley,  records  them  in  an  im- 
perishable form.  Mr.  Hawley,  long  the  librarian  of  the 
Memorial,  died  at  Stratford  on  March  13,  1889,  aged 
sixty-two,  and  was  buried  at  Kensal  Green,  in  London, 
his  wish  being  that  his  ashes  should  rest  in  that  place. 
Mr.  Hawley  had  been  an  actor,  under  the  name  of  Hay- 
well,  and  he  was  the  author  of  more  than  one  tragedy,  in 
blank  verse.  Mr.  A.  H.  Wall,  who  succeeded  him  as 
librarian,!  is  ^  learned  antiquary  and  an  admired  writer. 

1  Mr.  Wall  retired  from  the  office  of  librarian  of  the  Shakespeare 
Memorial  in  June,  1895,  ^"^  was  succeeded  by  Mr.  William  Salt  Bras- 
sington. 


I  $6  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


To  him  the  readers  of  the  Stratford-upon-Avon  Herald 
are  indebted  for  instructive  articles,  —  notably  for  those 
giving  an  account  of  the  original  Shakespeare  quartos 
acquired  for  the  Memorial  library  at  the  sale  of  the 
literary  property  of  J.  O.  Halliwell-Phillipps.  Those 
quartos  are  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  the  Merry  Wives 
of  Windsor,  and  a  first  edition  of  Pericles.  A  copy  of 
Roger  of  FaversJiani  was  also  bought,  together  with  two 
of  the  plays  of  Aphra  Behn.  Charles  Edward  Flower 
purchased,  at  that  sale,  a  copy  of  the  first  folio  of 
Shakespeare,  and  the  four  Shakespeare  Folios,  1623, 
1632,  1663,  1685,  stand  side  by  side  in  his  private 
library  at  Avonbank.  Mr.  Flower  intimated  the  in- 
tention of  giving  them  to  the  Memorial  library.  [His 
death  did  not  defeat  that  purpose.  Those  precious 
books  are  now  in  the  Memorial  collection.] 

A  large  collection  of  old  writings  was  found  in  a  room 
of  the  Grammar  School,  adjacent  to  the  Guild  chapel,  in 
1887.  About  five  thousand  separate  papers  were  dis- 
covered, the  old  commingled  with  the  new ;  many  of 
them  indentures  of  apprenticeship ;  many  of  them  re- 
ceipts for  money  ;  no  one  of  them  especially  important, 
as  bearing  on  the  Shakespeare  story.  Several  of  them 
are  in  Latin.  The  earliest  date  is  1 560,  —  four  years 
before  the  poet  was  born.  One  document  is  a  memo- 
randum "  presenting  "  a  couple  of  the  wives  of  Stratford 
for  slander  of  certain  other  women,  and  quoting  their 
bad  language  with  startling  fidelity.  Another  is  a  letter 
from  a  citizen  of  London,  named  Smart,  establishing  and 
endowing  a  free  school  in  Stratford  for  teaching  Eng- 
lish, —  the  writer  quaintly  remarking  that  schools  for 
the  teaching  of  Latin  are  numerous,  while  no  school  for 


X  SHAKESPEARE'S   TOWN  1 57 

teaching  English  exists,  that  he  can  discover.     Those 
papers  have  been  classified  and  arranged  by  Richard 
Savage,  but  nothing  directly  pertinent  to  Shakespeare 
has  been  found  in  them.     I  saw  a  deed  that  bore  the 
"mark"  of  Joan,  sister  of  Mary  Arden,  Shakespeare's 
mother,  but  this  may  not  be  a  recent  discovery.      All 
those  papers  are  written  in  that  "cramped  penmanship" 
which  baffled  Tony  Lumpkin,  and  which  baffles  wiser 
people  than  he  was.     Richard  Savage,  however,  is  skil- 
ful in  reading  this  crooked  and  queer  calligraphy ;  and 
the  materials  and  the  duty  of  exploring  them   are  in 
the  right  hands.     When  the  researches  and  conclusions 
of  that  scholar  are   published    they  will    augment    the 
mass  of  evidence  already  extant,  —  much  of  it  well  pre- 
sented by  J.  O.  Halliwell-PhiUipps,  —  that  the  writer  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  was  a  man  familiar  with  the  neigh- 
bourhood, the  names,  and  the  everyday  life  of  Stratford- 
upon-Avon  ;  a  fact  which  is  not  without  its  admonitory 
suggestiveness  to  those  credulous  persons  who  incline 
to  heed  the  ignorant  and  idle  theories  and  conjectures 
of  Mr.   Ignatius  Donnelly.      That  mistaken  and  some- 
what mischievous  writer  visited  Shakespeare's  town  in 
the  summer  of  1888,  and  surveyed  the  scenes  that  are 
usually  viewed.     "  He  did  not  address  himself  to  me," 
said  Miss  Chattaway,  who  was  then  at  the  Birthplace, 
as  its  custodian;    "had  he  done  so  I  should  have  in- 
formed him  that,  in  Stratford,  Bacon  is  all  gammon." 
She  was  right.     So  it  is.     And  not  alone  in  Stratford, 
but  wherever  men  and  women  have  eyes  to  see  and 
brains  to  understand. 

The  spot  on  which  Shakespeare  died  ought  surely  to 
be  deemed  as  sacred  as  the  spot  on  which  he  was  born : 


158 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


yet  New  Place  is  not  as  much  visited  as  the  Birthplace, 
—  perhaps  because  so  little  of  it  remains.  Only  five 
hundred  and  thirty-seven  visitors  went  there  during  the 


-j^r^ 


An-  Old  Stratford  Character  :   George  Robbins.     Died  September  ij,  r88g, 

aged  78. 

year  ending  April   13,   1888.^     In  repairing  the  custo- 
dian's house  at  New  Place  the  crossed  timbers  in  the 

1  In  1894  the  number  of  visitors  to  New  Place  was  809  ;    in  1895  ^* 
was  716,  while  13,028  visited  the  Memorial. 


X  SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN  1 59 

one  remaining  fragment  of  the  north  wall  of  the  origi- 
nal structure  were  found,  beneath  plaster.  Those  have 
been  left  uncovered  and  their  dark  lines  add  to  the 
picturesque  effect  of  the  place.  The  aspect  of  the 
old  house  prior  to  1742  is  known  but  vaguely,  if  at  all. 
Shakespeare  bought  it  in  1597,  when  he  was  thirty-three 
years  old,  and  he  kept  it  till  his  death,  nineteen  years 
later.  The  street,  Chapel  lane,  that  separates  it  from 
the  Guild  chapel  was  narrower  than  it  is  now,  and  the 
house  stood  in  a  grassy  enclosure,  encompassed  by  a 
wall,  the  entrance  to  the  garden  being  at  some  distance 
eastward  in  the  lane,  toward  the  river.  The  chief  rooms 
in  New  Place  were  lined  with  square,  sunken  panels  of 
oak,  which  covered  the  walls  from  floor  to  roof  and  prob- 
ably formed  the  ceilings.  Some  of  those  panels,  —  ob- 
tained when  the  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell  tore  down  that 
house  in  1759,  —  may  be  seen  in  a  parlour  of  the  Falcon 
hotel,  at  the  corner  of  Scholar's  lane  and  Chapel  street. 
There  is  nothing  left  of  New  Place  but  the  old  well  in 
the  cellar,  the  fragments  of  the  foundation,  the  lintel, 
the  armorial  stone,  and  the  fragment  of  wall  that  forms 
part  of  the  custodian's  house.  That  custodian,  Mr. 
Bower  Bulmer,  a  pleasant,  appreciative,  and  genial  man, 
died  on  January  17,  1888,  and  his  widow  succeeded  him 
in  office.^  Another  conspicuous  and  interesting  Strat- 
ford figure,  well  known  and  for  a  long  time,  was  John 
Marshall,  the  antiquary,  who  died  on  June  26,  1887. 
Mr.  Marshall  occupied  the  building  next  but  one  to  the 
original  New  Place,  on  the  north  side,  —  the  house  once 

1  Mrs.  Bulmer  served  as  custodian  of  New  Place  until  her  death,  on 
March  14,  1896.  The  office  was  then  assigned  to  Richard  Savage,  in 
addition  to  his  othe-r  offices. 


l6o  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

tenanted  by  Julius  Shaw,  one  of  the  five  witnesses  to 
Shakespeare's  will.  Mr.  Marshall  sold  Shakespeare 
souvenirs  and  quaint  furniture.  He  had  remarkable 
skill  in  carving,  and  his  mind  was  full  of  knowledge  of 
Shakespeare  antiquities  and  the  traditional  lore  of  Strat- 
ford. His  kindness,  his  eccentric  ways,  his  elaborate 
forms  of  speech,  and  his  love  and  faculty  for  art  com- 
mended him  to  the  respect  and  sympathy  of  all  who 
knew  him.  He  was  a  character, — and  in  such  a  place 
as  Stratford  such  quaint  beings  are  appropriate  and  un- 
commonly delightful.  He  will  long  be  kindly  remem- 
bered, long  missed  from  his  accustomed  round.  He 
rests  now,  in  an  unmarked  grave,  in  Trinity  churchyard, 
close  to  the  bank  of  the  Avon,  — just  east  of  the  stone 
that  marks  the  sepulchre  of  Mary  Pickering ;  by  which 
token  the  future  pilgrim  may  know  the  spot.  Marshall 
was  well  known  to  me,  and  we  had  many  a  talk  about 
the  antiquities  of  the  town.  Among  my  relics  there  was 
for  some  time  [until  at  last  I  gave  it  to  Edwin  Booth], 
a  precious  piece  of  wood,  bearing  this  inscription,  written 
by  him :  "  Old  Oak  from  Shakespeare's  Birth-place, 
taken  out  of  the  building  when  it  was  Restored  in  1858 
by  Mr.  William  Holtom,  the  contractor  for  the  restora- 
tion, who  supplied  it  to  John  Marshall,  carver,  Stratford- 
on-Avon,  and  presented  by  him  to  W.  Winter,  August 
27th,  1885,  J.  M."  Another  valued  souvenir  of  this 
quaint  person,  given  by  his  widow  to  Richard  Savage, 
of  the  Birthplace,  —  a  fine  carved  goblet,  made  from 
the  wood  of  the  renowned  mulberry-tree  planted  by  the 
poet  in  the  garden  of  New  Place,  and  cut  down  by  the 
Rev.  Francis  Gastrell  in  1756,  —  came  into  my  posses- 
sion, as  a  birthday  gift  from  Mr.  Savage,  on  July  1$, 
1891. 


X  SHAKESPEARE'S   TOWN  l6l 

At  the  Shakespeare  Birthplace  you  will  no  longer 
meet  with  those  gentle  ladies,  —  so  quaint,  so  charac- 
teristic, so  harmonious  with  the  place,  —  Miss  Maria 
Chattaway  and  Miss  Caroline  Chattaway.  The  former 
was  the  official  custodian  of  the  cottage,  and  the  latter 
assisted  her  in  the  work  of  its  exposition.  They  re- 
tired from  office  in  June,  1889,  after  seventeen  years  of 
service,  the  former  aged  seventy-six,  the  latter  seventy- 
eight ;  and  now,  —  being  infirm,  and  incapable  of  the 
active,  incessant  labour  that  was  required  of  them  by 
the  multitude  of  visitors,  —  they  dwell  in  a  little  house 
in  the  Warwick  Road,  where  their  friends  are  welcomed, 
and  where  venerable  and  honoured  age  may  haunt  the 
chimney-corner,  and  "  keep  the  flame  from  wasting,  by 
repose."  ^  The  new  guardian  of  the  Shakespeare  cot- 
tage is  Joseph  Skipsey,^  of  Newcastle,  the  miner  poet : 
for  Mr.  Skipsey  was  trained  in  the  mines  of  Northum- 
berland, was  long  a  labourer  in  them,  and  his  muse  sings 
in  the  simple  accents  of  nature.  He  is  the  author  of  an 
essay  on  Burns,  and  of  various  other  essays  and  miscel- 
laneous writings.  An  edition  of  his  poems,  under  the 
title  of  Carols,  Songs,  and  Ballads  has  been  published  in 
London,  by  Walter  Scott,  and  that  book  will  be  found 
interesting  by  those  who  enjoy  the  study  of  original 
character  and  of  a  rhythmical  expression  that  does  not 
savour  of  any  poetical  school.  Mr.  Skipsey  is  an  elderly 
man,  with  grizzled  hair,  a  benevolent  countenance,  and 
a  simple,  cordial  manner.     He  spoke  to  me,  with  much 

1  Miss  Maria  Chattaway  died    on  January   31,    1891.     Miss  Caroline 
Chattaway  removed  from  Stratford  on  October  7,  1895,  to  Haslor. 

2  Mr.  Skipsey  resigned  his  office,  in  October.   1891,   and    returned  to 
Newcastle. 


1 62  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

animation,  about  American  poets,  and  especially  about 
Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  in  whose  rare  and  fine  genius 
he  manifested  a  deep,  thoughtful,  and  gratifying  inter- 
est. The  visitor  no  longer  hears  that  earnest,  formal, 
characteristic  recital,  descriptive  of  the  house,  that  was 
given  daily  and  repeatedly,  for  so  many  years,  by  Miss 
Caroline  Chattaway,  —  that  delightful  allusion  to  "the 
mighty  dome  "  that  was  the  "  fit  place  for  the  mighty 
brain."  The  Birthplace  acquires  new  treasures  from 
year  to  year,  —  mainly  in  its  library,  which  is  kept  in 
perfect  order  by  Richard  Savage,  that  ideal  antiquarian, 
who  even  collects  and  retains  the  bits  of  the  stone  floor 
of  the  Shakespeare  room  that  become  detached  by  age. 
In  that  library  is  preserved  the  original  manuscript  of 
Wheler's  History  of  Stratford,  together  with  his  anno- 
tated and  interleaved  copy  of  the  printed  book,  which  is 
thus  enriched  with  much  new  material  relative  to  the 
antiquities  of  the  storied  town. 

In  the  Washington  Irving  parlour  of  the  Red  Horse 
the  American  traveller  will  find  objects  that  are  specially 
calculated  to  please  his  fancy  and  to  deepen  his  interest 
in  the  place.  Among  them  are  the  chair  in  which 
Irving  sat ;  the  sexton's  clock  to  which  he  refers  in 
the  Sketch  Book ;  an  autograph  letter  by  him ;  another 
by  Longfellow  ;  a  view  of  Irving's  house  of  Sunnyside ; 
and  pictures  of  Junius  Booth,  Edwin  Booth,  the  elder 
and  the  present  Jefferson,  Miss  Mary  Anderson,  Miss 
Ada  Rehan,  Elliston,  Farren,  Salvini,  Henry  Irving, 
and  Miss  Ellen  Terry.  To  invest  that  valued  room 
with  an  atmosphere  at  once  literary  and  dramatic  was 
the  intention  of  its  decorator,  and  this  object  has  been 
attained.     When  Washington   Irving  visited  Stratford 


X  SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN  1 63 

and  lodged  at  the  Red  Horse  the  "  pretty  chamber- 
maid," to  whom  he  alludes,  in  his  gentle  and  genial 
account  of  that  experience,  was  Sally  Garner,  —  then, 
in  fact,  a  middle-aged  woman  and  plain  rather  than 
pretty.  The  head  waiter  was  William  Webb.  Both 
those  persons  lived  to  an  advanced  age.  Sally  Garner 
was  retired,  on  a  pension,  by  Mr.  Gardner,  former  pro- 
prietor of  the  Red  Horse,  and  she  died  at  Tanworth 
(not  Tamworth,  which  is  another  place)  and  was  buried 
there.  Webb  died  at  Stratford.  He  had  been  a  waiter 
at  the  Red  Horse  for  sixty  years,  and  he  was  esteemed 
by  all  who  knew  him.  His  grave,  in  Stratford  church- 
yard, remained  unmarked,  and  it  is  one  among  the 
many  that,  unfortunately,  were  levelled  and  obliterated 
in  1888,  under  the  rule  of  the  present  vicar.  A  few  of 
the  older  residents  of  the  town  might  perhaps  be  able 
to  indicate  its  situation ;  but,  practically,  that  relic  of 
the  past  is  gone,  —  and  with  it  has  vanished  an  element 
of  valuable  interest  to  the  annual  multitude  of  Shake- 
speare pilgrims  upon  whom  the  prosperity  of  Stratford 
is  largely  dependent,  and  for  whom,  if  not  for  the  in- 
habitants, every  relic  of  its  past  should  be  perpetuated. ^ 
This  sentiment  is  not  without  its  practical  influence. 
Among  other  good  results  of  it  is  the  restoration  of 
the  ancient  timber  front  and  the  quaint  gables  of  the 
Shakespeare  hotel,  which,  already  hallowed  by  its  asso- 
ciation with  Garrick  and  the  Jubilee  of  September  7, 
1769,  has  now  become  one  of  the  most  picturesque, 
attractive,  and  representative  buildings  in  Stratford. 

1  The  grave  of  Charles  Frederick  Green,  author  of  an  account  of 
Shakespeare  and  the  Crab  Tree,  —  an  idle  tradition  set  afloat  by  Samuel 
Ireland,  —  was  made  in  the  angle  near  the  west  door  of  Trinity  church, 
but  it  has  been  covered,  tombstone  and  all,  with  gravel. 


1 64  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  chap. 

There  is  a  resolute  disposition  among  Stratford  peo- 
ple to  save  and  perpetuate  everything  that  is  associated, 
however  remotely,  with  the  name  of  Shakespeare.  Mr. 
Charles  Frederick  Loggin,^  a  chemist  in  the  High  street, 
possesses  a  lock  and  key  that  were  affixed  to  one  of  the 
doors  in  New  Place,  and  also  a  sundial  that  reposed 
upon  a  pedestal  in  New  Place  garden,  presumably  in 
Shakespeare's  time.  The  lock  is  made  of  brass  ;  the 
key  of  iron,  with  an  ornamented  handle,  of  graceful 
design,  but  broken.  On  the  lock  appears  an  inscrip- 
tion stating  that  it  was  "  taken  from  New  Place  in  the 
year  1759,  and  preserved  by  John  Lord,  Esq."  The 
sundial  is  made  of  copper,  and  upon  its  surface  are 
Roman  numerals  distributed  around  the  outer  edge  of 
the  circle  that  encloses  its  rays.  The  corners  of  the 
plate  are  broken,  and  one  side  of  it  is  bent.  This  in- 
jury was  done  to  it  by  thieves,  who  wrenched  it  from 
its  setting,  on  a  night  in  1759,  and  were  just  making 
away  with  it  when  they  were  captured  and  deprived  of 
their  plunder.  The  sundial  also  bears  an  inscription, 
certifying  that  it  was  preserved  by  Mr.  Lord.  New 
Place  garden  was  at  one  time  owned  by  one  of  Mr. 
Loggin's  relatives,  and  from  that  former  owner  those 
Shakespeare  relics  were  derived.  Shakespeare's  hand 
may  have  touched  that  lock,  and  Shakespeare's  eyes 
may  have  looked  upon  that  dial,  —  perhaps  on  the  day 
when    he  made  Jaques   draw  the  immortal  picture  of 

1  Mr.  Loggin  was  Mayor  of  Stratford  in  1866  and  1867,  and  under  his 
administration,  in  the  latter  year,  was  built  the  Mill  Bridge,  across  the 
Avon,  near  Lucy's  Mill,  to  replace  an  old  and  dilapidated  structure.  Mr. 
Loggin  died  on  February  3,  1885,  aged  sixty-nine,  and  was  buried  at 
Long  Marston. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN 


165 


Touchstone  in  the  forest,  moralising  on  the  flight  of 
time  and  the  evanescence  of  earthly  things.  \_As  You 
Like  It  was  written  in  1 599-1600.] 

Another  remote  relic  of  Shakespeare  is  the  shape 
of  the  foundation  of  Bishopton  church,  which  remains 
traced,  by  ridges  of  the  velvet  sod,  in  a  green  field  a 
little  to  the  northwest  of  Stratford,  in  the  direction  of 
Wilmcote,  —  the  birthplace  of  Shakespeare's  mother, 
Mary  Arden.     The    parish    of   Bishopton   adjoins  that 


i-*^.  / 


Anne  Hathaway' s  Cottage. 


y//,'  ■ '-"'  ' 


of  Shottery,  and  Bishopton  is  one  of  three  places  that 
have  commonly  been  mentioned  in  association  with 
Shakespeare's  marriage  with  Anne  Hathaway.  Many 
scholars,  indeed,  incline  to  think  that  the  wedding  oc- 
curred there.  The  church  was  destroyed  about  eighty 
years  ago.  The  house  in  Wilmcote,  in  which,  as  tradi- 
tion declares,  Mary  Arden  was  born,  is  seen  at  the  en- 


1 66  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

trance  to  the  village,  and  is  conspicuous  for  its  quaint 
dormer  windows  and  for  its  mellow  colours  and  impres- 
sive antiquity.  Wilmcote  is  rougher  in  aspect  than 
most  of  the  villages  of  Warwickshire,  and  the  country 
immediately  around  it  is  wild  and  bleak  ;  but  the  hedges 
are  full  of  wildflowers  and  are  haunted  by  many  birds ; 
and  the  wide,  green,  lonesome  fields,  especially  when  you 
see  them  in  the  gloaming,  possess  that  air  of  melan- 
choly solitude, — vague,  dream-like,  and  poetic  rather 
than  sad,  —  which  always  strongly  sways  the  imagina- 
tive mind.  Inside  the  Mary  Arden  cottage  I  saw  noth- 
ing remarkable,  except  the  massive  old  timbers.  That 
house  as  well  as  the  Anne  Hathaway  cottage  at  Shot- 
tery,  will  be  purchased  and  added  to  the  other  several 
Trusts,  of  Shakespeare's  Birthplace,  the  Museum,  and 
New  Place.^  The  Anne  Hathaway  cottage  needs  care, 
and  as  an  authentic  relic  of  Shakespeare  and  a  charm- 
ing bit  of  rustic  antiquity  its  preservation  is  important, 
as  well  to  lovers  of  the  poet,  all  the  world  over,  as  to 
the  town  of  Stratford,  which  thrives  by  his  renown. 
The  beautiful  Guild  chapel  also  needs  care.  The  hand 
of  restoration  should,  indeed,  touch  it  lightly  and  rev- 
erently ;  but  restored  it  must  be,  at  no  distant  day,  for 
every  autumn  storm  shakes  down  fragments  of  its  fretted 
masonry  and  despoils  the  venerable  grandeur  of  that 
gray  tower  on  which  Shakespeare  so  often  gazed  from 
the  windows  of  his  hallowed  home.  Whatever  is  done 
there,  fortunately  for  the  Shakespearean  world,  will  be 
done  under  the  direction  of  a  man  of  noble  spirit,  rare 
ability,    sound   scholarship,    and   fine   taste,  —  the   Rev. 

^  The  Anne  Hathaway  cottage  was  purchased  for  the  nation,  in  April, 
1892. 


X  SHAKESPEARE'S   TOWN  1 6/ 

R.  S.  DeCourcy  Laffan,  head-master  of  the  Grammar 
School  and  therefore  pastor  of  the  Guild. ^  Liberal  in 
thought,  manly  in  character,  simple,  sincere,  and  full 
of  sensibility  and  goodness,  that  preacher  strongly  im- 
presses all  who  approach  him,  and  is  one  of  the  most 
imposing  figures  in  the  pulpit  of  his  time.  And  he  is 
a  reverent  Shakespearean. 

A  modern  feature  of  Stratford,  interesting  to  the 
Shakespeare  pilgrim,  is  Lord  Ronald  Gower's  statue  of 
the  poet,  erected  in  October,  1888,  in  the  Memorial  gar- 
den. That  work  is  infelicitous  in  its  site  and  not  fortu- 
nate in  all  of  its  details,  but  in  some  particulars  it  is 
fine.  Upon  a  huge  pedestal  appears  the  full-length 
bronze  figure  of  Shakespeare,  seated  in  a  chair,  while 
at  the  four  corners  of  the  base  are  bronze  effigies  of 
Hamlet,  Lady  Macbeth,  Henry  the  Fifth,  and  Fal- 
staff.  Hamlet  is  the  expression  of  a  noble  ideal.  The 
face  and  figure  are  wasted  with  misery,  yet  full  of 
thought  and  strength.  The  type  of  man  thus  em- 
bodied will  at  once  be  recognised,  —  an  imperial, 
powerful,  tender,  gracious,  but  darkly  introspective 
nature,  broken  and  subjugated  by  hopeless  grief  and 
by  vain  brooding  over  the  mystery  of  life  and  death. 
Lady  Macbeth  is  depicted  in  her  sleep-walking,  and, 
although  the  figure  is  treated  in  a  conventional  manner, 
it  conveys  the  idea  of  remorse  and  of  physical  emacia- 
tion from  suffering,  and  likewise  the  sense  of  being 
haunted  and  accursed.  Prince  Henry  is  represented  as 
he  may  have  appeared  when  putting  on  his  dying 
father's    kingly  crown.     The    figure    is    lithe,  graceful, 

1  Mr.  Laffan  resigned  his  office  in  June,  1895,  ^^'^  became  President 
of  Cheltenham  College.     Rev.  E.  J.  W.  Houghton  is  now  head-master. 


1 68  •  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

and  spirited ;  the  pose  is  true  and  the  action  is  natural ; 
but  the  personaHty  is  deficient  of  identity  and  of  royal 
distinction.  Falstaff  appears  as  a  fat  man  who  is  a 
type  of  gross,  chuckling  humour ;  so  that  this  image 
might  stand  for  Gambrinus.  The  intellect  and  the 
predominant  character  of  Falstaff  are  not  indicated. 
The  figures  are  dwarfed,  furthermore,  by  the  size  of 
the  stone  that  they  surround,  — ■  a  huge  pillar,  upon 
which  appropriate  lines  from  Shakespeare  have  been 
inscribed.  The  statue  of  Shakespeare  shows  a  man 
of  solid  self-concentration  and  adamantine  will ;  an  ob- 
server, of  universal  view,  and  incessant  vigilance.  The 
chief  feature  of  it  is  the  piercing  look  of  the  eyes. 
This  is  a  man  who  sees,  ponders,  and  records.  Im- 
agination and  sensibility,  on  the  other  hand,  are  not 
suggested.  The  face  lacks  modelling :  it  is  as  smooth 
as  the  face  of  a  child  ;  there  is  not  one  characteristic 
curve  or  wrinkle  in  all  its  placid  expanse.  Perhaps  it 
was  designed  to  express  an  idea  of  eternal  youth.  The 
man  who  had  gained  Shakespeare's  obvious  experience 
must  have  risen  to  a  composure  not  to  be  ruffled  by 
anything  that  this  world  can  do,  to  bless  or  to  ban  a 
human  life.  But  the  record  of  his  struggle  must  have 
been  written  in  his  face.  This  may  be  a  fine  statue  of 
a  practical  thinker,  but  it  is  not  the  image  of  a  poet 
and  it  is  not  an  adequate  presentment  of  Shakespeare. 
The  structure  stands  on  the  south  side  of  the  Memorial 
building  and  within  a  few  feet  of  it,  so  that  it  is  almost 
swallowed  up  by  what  was  intended  for  its  background. 
It  would  show  to  better  advantage  if  it  were  placed  fur- 
ther to  the  south,  looking  down  the  long  reach  of  the 
Avon  toward  Shakespeare's  church.     The  form  of  the 


f 


THE    COWER    STATUE 


} 


1 68  vND  GOLD  CHAP. 

i>  uiiL-  ciiid  the  action  is  natural; 
-  victicient  of  identity  and  of  royal 
r   appears  as  a  f;it  man  who    is  a 
;  .kling  humour ;  so  that  this  image 
:    Gambrinus.      The    intellect   and    th< 
character   of    FalstrnfT  ri<  indicated 

s  are  dwarfed,  furth.  he  size  of 

that   they  surr  illar,   upon 

•ropriate  lines  fron  :".ave  been 

,1.      The  statue  of   S  >hows  a  man 

self-concentration  i;ii'-    will;  an  ob- 

■;f  universal  vie V  vigilance.     The 

ature    of    '  i"ok   of  the  eyes. 

3'JTAT2  M3woai«iriT records.     Im- 
liic   uiher   hand,   are  not 
u.      I  lie    i.i' ■.  ux:  rv,-  uiodellin       '^    "     as  smooth 
.V    lace  of  a  child;  there  is  no.  .  ,  .      ..  uacteristic 
..  .e  or  wrinkle  in  all  its  placid  exn.nnse       Porhan?   it 
vvas  designed  to  express  an  idea  of  T '  . 

man  who  had  gained  Shnk  ;.\perience 

must  have  risen  to  a  .:  not  to  be  ruffled  by 

anything  that  this  world  can  do,  to  bless  or  to  ban  a 
human  life.  But  the  record  of  his  struggle  must  have 
been  written  in  his  face.  This  may  be  a  fine  statue  of 
a  practical  thinker,  but  it  is  not  the  image  of  a  poet 
and  it  is  not  an  adequate  presentment  of  Shakespeare. 
The  structure  stands  on  the  south  side  of  the  Memorial 
building  and  within  a  few  feet  of  '    t  it  is  almost 

swallowed  up  by  what  was  int  n:^  background. 

It  would  show  to  better  advaiuci-.  ,i  .l  were  placed  fur- 
ther to  the  south,  looking  down  the  long  reach  of  the 
Avon  toward  Shakespeare's  church.     The  form  of  the 


X  SHAKESPEARE'S   TOWN  169 

poet  could  then  be  seen  from  the  spot  on  which  he  died, 
while  his  face  would  still  look,  as  it  does  now,  toward 
his  tomb. 

A  constant  stream  of  American  visitors  pours  annually 
through  the  Red  Horse.  Within  three  days  of  July, 
1889,  more  than  a  hundred  American  names  appeared 
in  the  register.  The  spirit  of  Washington  Irving  is 
mighty  yet.  Looking  through  a  few  of  the  old  registers 
of  this  house,  I  read  many  familiar  names  of  distin- 
guished Americans.  Bayard  Taylor  came  here  on  July 
23,  1856;  James  E.  Murdoch,  the  famous  Hamlet  and 
Mirabel  of  other  days,  on  August  31,  1856;  Rev. 
Francis  Vinton  on  June  10,  1857;  Henry  Ward  Beecher 
on  June  22,  1862;  Elihu  Burritt,  "the  learned  black- 
smith," on  September  19,  1865  ;  George  Ripley  on  May 
12,  1866.  Poor  Artemas  Ward  arrived  on  September 
18,  1866,  —  only  a  little  while  before  his  death,  which 
occurred  in  March,  1867,  at  Southampton.  The  Rev. 
Charles  T.  Brooks,  translator  of  Faust,  registered  his 
name  here  on  September  20,  1866.  Charles  Dudley 
Warner  came  on  May  6,  1868;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  J. 
Florence  on  May  29,  1868;  and  S.  R.  Gifford  and 
Jervis  M'Entee  on  the  same  day.  The  poet  Long- 
fellow, accompanied  by  Thomas  Appleton,  arrived  on 
June  23,  1868.  Those  Red  Horse  registers  contain  a 
unique  and  remarkable  collection  of  autographs.  Within 
a  few  pages,  I  observed  the  curiously  contrasted  signa- 
tures of  Cardinal  Wiseman,  Sam  Cowell,  the  Due 
d'Aumale,  Tom  Thumb,  Miss  Burdett-Coutts  (1861), 
Blanchard  Jerrold,  Edmund  Yates,  Charles  Fechter, 
Andrew  Carnegie,  David  Gray  (of  Buffalo),  the  Duchess 
of  Coburg,  Moses  H.  Grinnell,   Lord  Leigh,  of  Stone- 


I70  GRAY  DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

leigh  Abbey,  J.  M.  Bellew,  Samuel  Longfellow,  Charles 
and  Pienry  Webb  (the  Dromios),  Edna  Dean  Proctor, 
Gerald  Massey,  Clarence  A.  Seward,  Frederick  Mac- 
cabe,  M.  D.  Conway,  the  Prince  of  Conde,  and  John  L. 
Toole.  That  this  repository  of  autographs  is  appreci- 
ated may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  special  vigilance 
has  to  be  exercised  to  prevent  the  hotel  registers  from 
being  carried  off  or  mutilated.  The  volume  containing 
the  signature  of  Washington  Irving  was  stolen  years 
ago  and  it  has  been  vaguely  heard  of  as  being  in 
America. 

There  is  a  collection  of  autographs  of  visitors  to  the 
Shakespeare  Birthplace  that  was  gathered  many  years 
since  by  Mary  Hornby,  custodian  of  that  cottage  [it 
was  she  who  whitewashed  the  walls,  in  order  to  obliter- 
ate the  writings  upon  them,  when  she  was  removed 
from  her  office,  in  1820],  and  this  is  now  in  the  posses- 
sion of  her  granddaughter,  Mrs.  Smith, ^  a  resident  of 
Stratford ;  but  many  valuable  names  have  been  taken 
from  it,  —  among  others  that  of  Lord  Byron.  The 
mania  for  obtaining  relics  of  Stratford  antiquity  is 
remarkable.  Mention  is  made  of  an  unknown  lady 
who  came  to  the  birth-room  of  Shakespeare,  and  after 
begging  in  vain  for  a  piece  of  the  woodwork  or  of  the 
stone,  presently  knelt  and  wiped  the  floor  with  her 
glove,  which  then  she  carefully  rolled  up  and  secreted, 
declaring  that  she  would,  at  least,  possess  some  of  the 
dust  of  that  sacred  chamber.  It  is  a  creditable  senti- 
ment, though  not  altogether  a  rational  one,  that  impels 

^  Mrs.  Eliza  Smith  died  at  No.  56  Ely  street,  Stratford,  on  February  24, 
i893>  aged  68,  and  the  relics  that  she  possessed  passed  to  a  relative,  at 
Northampton.     They  were  sold,  in  London,  in  June,  1896. 


SHAKESPEARE'S  TOWN 


171 


devotional  persons  to  such  conduct  as  that ;  but  the 
entire  Shakespeare  cottage  would  soon  disappear  if 
such  a  passion  for  relics  were  practically  gratified.  The 
elemental  feeling  is  one  of  reverence,  and  this  is  per- 
haps indicated  in  the  following  lines  with  which  the 
present  writer  began  a  new  volume  of  the  Red  Horse 
register,  on  July  21,  1889:  — 

Shakespeare. 

While  evening  waits  and  hearkens, 

While  yet  the  song-bird  calls, — ■ 
Before  the  last  light  darkens, 

Before  the  last  leaf  falls,  — 
Once  more  with  reverent  feeling 

This  sacred  shrine  I  seek. 
By  silent  awe  revealing 

The  love  I  cannot  speak. 


■5t«3M,,!~.-'? 


CHAPTER  XI 

UP    AND    DOWN    THE    AVON 

TRATFORD-UPON-AVON,  August  22, 
1889. — The  river  life  of  Stratford  is  one 
of  the  chief  delights  of  this  delightful 
town.  The  Avon,  according  to  law,  is 
navigable  from  its  mouth,  at  Tewkesbury, 
where  it  empties  into  the  Severn,  as  far  upward  as  War- 
wick ;  but  according  to  fact  it  is  passable  only  to  the 
resolute  navigator  who  can  surmount  obstacles.  From 
Tewkesbury  up  to  Evesham  there  is  plain  sailing. 
Above  Evesham  there  are  occasional  barriers.  At 
Stratford  there  is  an  abrupt  pause  at  Lucy's  mill,  and 
your  boat  must  be  taken  ashore,  dragged  a  little  way 
over  the  meadow,  and  launched  again.  Lucy's  mill  is 
just  south  of  the  Shakespeare  church,  and  from  this 
point  up  to  Clopton's  bridge  the  river  is  broad.  Here 
the  boat-races  are  rowed,  almost  every  year.  Here  the 
stream  ripples  against  the  pleasure-ground  called  the 
Bancroft,  skirts  the  gardens  of  the  Shakespeare  Memo- 
rial, glides  past  the  lovely  lawns  of  Avonbank,  —  once 
the  home  of  that  noble  public  benefactor  and  fine  Shake- 
spearean scholar,  Charles  Edward  Flower,  —  and  breaks 
upon  the  retaining  wall   of   the  churchyard,   crowned 

172 


174 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


with  the  high  and  thick-leaved  elms  that  nod  and 
whisper  over  Shakespeare's  dust.  The  town  lies  on 
the  left  or  west  bank  of  the  Avon,  as  you  ascend  the 
river  looking  northward.  On  the  right  or  east  bank 
there  is  a  wide  stretch  of  meadow.  To  float  along  here 
in  the  gloaming,  when  the  bats  are  winging  their  "  clois- 


Cloptoii  Hridge. 

tered  flight,"  when  great  flocks  of  starlings  are  flying 
rapidly  over,  when  "  the  crow  makes  wing  to  the  rooky 
wood,"  when  the  water  is  as  smooth  as  a  mirror  of 
burnished  steel,  and  equally  the  grasses  and  flowers 
upon  the  banks  and  the  stately  trees  and  the  gray, 
solemn,  and  beautiful  church  are  reflected  deep  in  the 
lucid   stream,  is  an  experience   of   thoughtful   pleasure 


XI  UP  AND   DOWN   THE   AVON  1 75 

that  sinks  deep  into  the  heart  and  will  never  be  for- 
gotten. You  do  not  know  Stratford  till  you  know  the 
Avon. 

From  Clopton's  bridge  upward  the  river  winds  capri- 
ciously between  banks  that  are  sometimes  fringed  with 
willows  and  sometimes  bordered  with  grassy  meadows 
or  patches  of  woodland  or  cultivated  lawns,  enclosing 
villas  that  seem  the  chosen  homes  of  all  this  world  can 
give  of  loveliness  and  peace.  The  course  is  now  entirely 
clear  for  several  miles.  Not  till  you  pass  the  foot  of 
Alveston  village  does  any  obstacle  present  itself;  but 
there,  as  well  as  a  little  further  on,  by  Hatton  Rock,  the 
stream  runs  shallow  and  the  current  becomes  very  swift, 
dashing  over  sandy  banks  and  great  masses  of  tangled 
grass  and  weeds.  These  are  "the  rapids,"  and  through 
these  the  mariner  must  make  his  way  by  adroit  steering 
and  a  vigorous  and  expert  use  of  oars  and  boat-hooks. 
The  Avon  now  is  bowered  by  tall  trees,  and  upon  the 
height  that  it  skirts  you  see  the  house  of  Ryon  Hill,  — 
celebrated  in  the  novel  of  Asphodel,  by  Miss  Braddon. 
This  part  of  the  river,  closed  in  from  the  world  and  pre- 
senting in  each  direction  twinkling  vistas  of  sun  and 
shadow,  is  especially  lovely.  Here,  in  a  quiet  hour,  the 
creatures  that  live  along  these  shores  will  freely  show 
themselves  and  their  busy  ways.  The  water-rat  comes 
out  of  his  hole  and  nibbles  at  the  reeds  or  swims  stur- 
dily across  the  stream.  The  moor-hen  flutters  out  of 
her  nest,  among  the  long,  green  rushes,  and  skims  from 
bank  to  bank.  The  nimble  little  wagtail  flashes  through 
the  foliage.  The  squirrel  leaps  among  the  boughs,  and 
the  rabbit  scampers  into  the  thicket.  Sometimes  a 
kingfisher,  with  his  shining  azure  shield,  pauses  for  a 


CHAP.  XI  UP   AND   DOWN   THE   AVON  1 77 

moment  among  the  gnarled  roots  upon  the  brink.  Some- 
times a  heron,  disturbed  in  her  nest,  rises  suddenly  upon 
her  great  wings  and  soars  grandly  away.  Once,  row- 
ing down  this  river  at  nearly  midnight,  I  surprised  an 
otter  and  heard  the  splash  of  his  precipitate  retreat. 
The  ghost  of  an  old  gypsy,  who  died  by  suicide  upon 
this  wooded  shore,  is  said  to  haunt  the  neighbouring 
crag;  but  this,  like  all  other  ghosts  that  ever  I  came 
near,  eluded  equally  my  vision  and  my  desire.  But  it 
is  a  weird  spot  at  night. 

Near  Alveston  mill  you  must  drag  your  boat  over  a 
narrow  strip  of  land  and  launch  her  again  for  Charle- 
cote.  Now  once  more  this  delicious  water-way  is  broad 
and  fine.  As  it  sweeps  past  a  stately,  secluded  home, 
once  that  of  the  ancient  family  of  Peers,  toward  the 
Wellesbourne  Road,  a  great  bed  of  cultivated  white 
water-lilies  [hitherto  they  have  all  been  yellow]  adorns 
it,  and  soon  there  are  glimpses  of  the  deer  that  browse 
or  prance  or  slumber  beneath  the  magnificent  oaks  and 
elms  and  limes  and  chestnuts  of  Charlecote  Park.  No 
view  of  Charlecote  can  compare  with  the  view  of  it  that 
is  obtained  from  the  river ;  and  if  its  proprietor  values 
its  reputation  for  beauty  he  ought  to  be  glad  that  lovers 
of  the  beautiful  sometimes  have  an  opportunity  to  see 
it  from  this  point.  The  older  wing,  with  its  oriel  win- 
dow and  quaint  belfry,  is  of  a  peculiar,  mellow  red,  re- 
lieved against  bright  green  ivy,  to  which  only  the  brush 
of  a  painter  could  do  justice.  Nothing  more  delicious, 
in  its  way,  is  to  be  found ;  at  least,  the  only  piece  of 
architecture  in  this  region  that  excels  it  in  beauty  of 
colour  is  the  ancient  house  of  Compton-Wynyate ;  but 
that  is  a  marvel  of  loveliness,  the  gem  of  Warwickshire, 

M 


178  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


and,  in  romantic  quaintness,  it  surpasses  all  its  fellows. 
The  towers  of  the  main  building  of  Charlecote  are  octa- 
gon, and  a  happy  alternation  of  thin  and  slender  with 
thick,  truncated  turrets  much  enhances  the  effect  of 
quaintness  in  this  grave  and  opulent  edifice.  A  walled 
terrace,  margined  with  urns  and  blazing  with  flowers  of 
gold  and  crimson,  extends  from  the  river  front  to  the 
waterside,  and  terminates  in  a  broad  flight  of  stone 
steps,  at  the  foot  of  which  are  moored  the  barges  of  the 
house  of  Lucy.  No  spectacle  could  suggest  more  of 
aristocratic  state  and  austere  magnificence  than  this 
sequestered  edifice  does,  standing  there,  silent,  an- 
tique, venerable,  gorgeous,  surrounded  by  its  vast,  thick- 
wooded  park,  and  musing,  as  it  has  done  for  hundreds 
of  years,  on  the  silver  Avon  that  murmurs  at  its  base. 
Close  by  there  is  a  lovely  waterfall,  over  which  some 
little  tributary  of  the  river  descends  in  a  fivefold  wave 
of  shimmering  crystal,  wafting  a  music  that  is  heard  in 
every  chamber  of  the  house  and  in  all  the  fields  and 
woodlands  round  about.  It  needs  the  sun  to  bring  out 
the  rich  colours  of  Charlecote,  but  once  when  I  saw  it 
from  the  river  a  storm  was  coming  on,  and  vast  masses 
of  black  and  smoke-coloured  cloud  were  driving  over  it, 
in  shapeless  blocks  and  jagged  streamers,  while  count- 
less frightened  birds  were  whirling  above  it ;  and  pres- 
ently, when  the  fierce  lightning  flashed  across  the 
heavens  and  a  deluge  of  rain  descended  and  beat  upon 
it,  a  more  romantic  sight  was  never  seen. 

Above  Charlecote  the  Avon  grows  narrow  for  a 
space,  and  after  you  pass  under  Hampton  Lucy  bridge 
your  boat  is  much  entangled  in  river  grass  and  much 
impeded  by  whirls  and  eddies  of  the  shallowing  stream. 


XI 


UP  AND   DOWN  THE  AVON 


179 


There  is  another  mill  at  Hampton  Lucy,  and  a  little 
way  beyond  the  village  your  further  progress  upward  is 
stopped  by  a  waterfall,  —  beyond  which,  however,  and 
accessible  by  the  usual  expedient  of  dragging  the  boat 
over  the  land,  a  noble  reach  of  the  river  is  disclosed, 
stretching  away  toward  Warwick,  where  the  wonderful 


The  Abbey  Mills,    Tewkesbury. 


Castle,  and  sweet  St.  Mary's  tower,  and  Leicester's  hos- 
pital, and  the  cosy  Warwick  Arms  await  your  coming, 
—  with  mouldering  Kenilworth  and  majestic  Stoneleigh 
Abbey  reserved  to  lure  you  still  further  afield.  But  the 
scene  around  Hampton  Lucy  is  not  one  to  be  quickly 


l8o  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xi 

left.  There  the  meadows  are  rich  and  green  and  fra- 
grant. There  the  large  trees  give  grateful  shade  and 
make  sweet  music  in  the  summer  wind.  There,  from 
the  ruddy  village,  thin  spires  of  blue  smoke  curl  upward 
through  the  leaves  and  seem  to  tell  of  comfort  and  con- 
tent beneath.  At  a  little  distance  the  gray  tower  of  the 
noble  church,  —  an  edifice  of  peculiar  and  distinctive 
majesty,  and  one  well  worthy  of  the  exceptional  beauty 
enshrined  within  it,  —  rears  itself  among  the  elms.  Close 
by  the  sleek  and  indolent  cattle  are  couched  upon  the 
cool  sod,  looking  at  you  with  large,  soft,  lustrous,  indif- 
ferent eyes.  The  waterfall  sings  on,  with  its  low  melan- 
choly plaint,  while  sometimes  the  silver  foam  of  it  is 
caught  up  and  whirled  away  by  the  breeze.  The  waves 
sparkle  on  the  running  stream,  and  the  wildflowers,  in 
gay  myriads,  glance  and  glimmer  on  the  velvet  shore. 
And  so,  as  the  sun  is  setting  and  the  rooks  begin  to  fly 
homeward,  you  breathe  the  fragrant  air  from  Scarbank 
and  look  upon  a  veritable  place  that  Shakespeare  may 
have  had  in  mind  when  he  wrote  his  line  of  endless 
melody  — 

"  I  know  a  bank  where  the  wild  thyme  blows."  ^ 

^  Modern  editions,  following  Pope's  alteration,  say  "  whereon  "  instead 
of  "where";  but  "where"  is  the  reading  in  the  Folio  of  1623.  Mr. 
Savage  contends  that  the  bank  that  Shakespeare  had  in  mind  is  Borden 
Hill,  near  Shottery,  where  the  wild  thyme  is  still  abundant. 


CHAPTER   XII 


RAMBLES    IN    ARDEN 


yt^"^^ 


TRATFORD-UPON-AVON,  August  27, 
1889. — Among  the  many  charming  ram- 
bles that  may  be  enjoyed  in  the  vicinity  of 
Stratford,  the  ramble  to  Wootton-Wawen 
and  Henley-in-Arden  is  not  least  de- 
lightful. Both  those  places  are  on  the  Birmingham 
road ;  the  former  six  miles,  the  latter  eight  miles,  from 
Stratford.  When  you  stand  upon  the  bridge  at  Woot- 
ton  you  are  only  one  hundred  miles  from  London,  but 
you  might  be  in  a  wilderness  a  thousand  miles  from  any 
city,  for  in  all  the  slumberous  scene  around  you  there 
is  no  hint  of  anything  but  solitude  and  peace.  Close 
by  a  cataract  tumbles  over  the  rocks  and  fills  the  air 
with  music.  Not  far  distant  rises  the  stately  front  of 
Wootton  Hall,  an  old  manor-house,  surrounded  with 
green  lawns  and  bowered  by  majestic  elms,  which  has 
always  been  a  Roman  Catholic  abode,  and  which  is 
never  leased  to  any  but  Roman  Catholic  tenants.  A 
cosy,  gabled  house,  standing  among  trees  and  shrubs  a 
little  way  from  the  roadside,  is  the  residence  of  the 
priest  of  this  hamlet,  —  an  antiquarian  and  a  scholar, 
of   ample    acquirements    and  fine  talent.       Across   the 

181 


1 82  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

meadows,  in  one  direction,  peers  forth  a  fine  specimen 
of  the  timbered  cottage  of  ancient  times, — the  black 
beams  conspicuous  upon  a  white  surface  of  plaster. 
Among  the  trees,  in  another  direction,  appears  the 
great  gray  tower  of  Wootton-Wawen  church,  a  ven- 
erable pile  and  one  in  which,  by  means  of  the  varying 
orders  of  its  architecture,  you  may,  perhaps,  trace  the 
whole  ecclesiastical  history  of  England.  The  approach 
to  that  church  is  through  a  green  lane  and  a  wicket- 
gate,  and  when  you  come  near  to  it  you  find  that  it  is 
surrounded  with  many  graves,  some  marked  and  some 
unmarked,  on  all  of  which  the  long  grass  waves  in  rank 
luxuriance  and  whispers  softly  in  the  summer  breeze. 
The  place  seems  deserted.  Not  a  human  creature  is 
anywhere  visible,  and  the  only  sound  that  breaks  the 
stillness  of  this  August  afternoon  is  the  cawing  of  a 
few  rooks  in  the  lofty  tops  of  the  neighbouring  elms. 
The  actual  life  of  all  places,  when  you  come  to  know  it 
well,  proves  to  be,  for  the  most  part,  conventional,  com- 
monplace, and  petty.  Human  beings,  with  here  and 
there  an  exception,  are  dull  and  tedious,  each  resem- 
bling the  other,  and  each  needlessly  laborious  to  in- 
crease that  resemblance.  In  this  respect  all  parts  of 
the  world  are  alike,  —  and  therefore  the  happiest 
traveller  is  he  who  keeps  mostly  alone,  and  uses  his 
eyes,  and  communes  with  his  own  thoughts.  The 
actual  life  of  Wootton  is,  doubtless,  much  like  that  of 
other  hamlets,  —  a  "noiseless  tenor"  of  church  squab- 
bles, village  gossip,  and  discontented  grumbling,  diver- 
sified with  feeding  and  drinking,  lawn  tennis,  matrimony, 
birth,  and  death.  But  as  I  looked  around  upon  this 
group  of  nestling  cottages,  these  broad  meadows,  green 


>  shadow  of  the  densely  mantled  trees, 

ad  faded  with  antiquity, 

mid  the  fresh  and  everlast- 

leit  that  surely  here  might  at 

aent  haven  of  refuge  from 

u  triviality  of  ordinary  experi- 

.n  of  the  world. 

>h    is    one    of    the    numerous 

:^s  of  about  the  eleventh  cen- 

,   this    realm,  devoted   now   to 

has  been  partly  restored,  but 

of  decay,  and   if   this  be   not 

will   become    a   ruin.       Its 

pi  iic  Rev.  i'ra;icis  T.  Bramston,  is  making 

'■  HpjiUHO    WaWAW-MOTTQOW  .    ^ 

vigorous  efforts  to  interest  the  public  m  the  preservation 
of  this  ancient  monument,  and  those  efforts  ought  to 
succeed.     A  more  vaku!  iastical  relic  it  would 

b>  ion  of  antique 

tered  situa- 
li  invest  it  with 

p.  lurtherraore,  with 

-  .  -'v  and  honoured 

T   !, -,   Viscount 

.illy  stood 

■^iirectcd  to 

tf  his 

•lie  lived 

■XV  dwas 

d  hunts- 
.!  h,  the 


I 


WOOTTON-WAWEN    CHURCH 


I 


i 


XII  RAMBLES    IN    ARDEN  1 83 

and  cool  in  the  shadow  of  the  densely  mantled  trees, 
and  this  ancient  church,  gray  and  faded  with  antiquity, 
slowly  crumbling  to  pieces  amid  the  fresh  and  everlast- 
ing vitality  of  nature,  I  felt  that  surely  here  might  at 
last  be  discovered  a  permanent  haven  of  refuge  from 
the  incessant  platitude  and  triviality  of  ordinary  experi- 
ence and  the  strife  and  din  of  the  world. 

Wootton-Wawen  church  is  one  of  the  numerous 
Roman  Catholic  buildings  of  about  the  eleventh  cen- 
tury that  still  survive  in  this  realm,  devoted  now  to 
Protestant  worship.  It  has  been  partly  restored,  but 
most  of  it  is  in  a  state  of  decay,  and  if  this  be  not 
soon  arrested  the  building  will  become  a  ruin.  Its 
present  vicar,  the  Rev.  Francis  T.  Bramston,  is  making 
vigorous  efforts  to  interest  the  public  in  the  preservation 
of  this  ancient  monument,  and  those  efforts  ought  to 
succeed.  A  more  valuable  ecclesiastical  relic  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find,  even  in  this  rich  region  of  antique 
treasures,  the  heart  of  England.  Its  sequestered  situa- 
tion and  its  sweetly  rural  surroundings  invest  it  with 
peculiar  beauty.  It  is  associated,  furthermore,  with 
names  that  are  stately  in  English  history  and  honoured 
in  English  literature,  —  with  Henry  St.  John,  Viscount 
Bolingbroke,  whose  sister  reposes  in  its  ancient  vaults, 
and  with  William  Somerville  [1692-1742],  the  poet 
who  wrote  TJie  Chase.  It  was  not  until  I  actually  stood 
upon  his  tombstone  that  my  attention  was  directed  to 
the  name  of  that  old  author,  and  to  the  presence  of  his 
relics  in  this  remote  and  lonely  place.  Somerville  lived 
and  died  at  Edston  Hall,  near  Wootton-Wawen,  and  was 
famous  in  his  day  as  a  Warwickshire  squire  and  hunts- 
man.    His  grave  is  in  the  chancel  of  the  church,  the 


CHAP, 


184  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 

following  excellent  epitaph,  written  by  himself,  being 
inscribed  upon  the  plain  blue  stone  that  covers  it:  — 

H.    S.    E. 

OBIIT     17.    JULY.    1742- 

GULIELMUS    SOMERVILE.    ARM. 

SI   QUID   IN   ME   BONI   COMPERTUM 

HABEAS, 

IMITATE. 
SI   QUID   MALI,    TOTIS   VIRIBUS 
EVITA. 

CHRISTO   CONFIDE, 
ET   SCIAS   TE   QUOQUE   FRAGILEM 
ESSE 

ET   MORTALEM. 

Such  words  have  a  meaning  that  sinks  deep  into  the 
heart  when  they  are  read  upon  the  gravestone  that  covers 
the  poet's  dust.  They  came  to  me  like  a  message  from 
an  old  friend  who  had  long  been  waiting  for  the  oppor- 
tunity of  this  solemn  greeting  and  wise  counsel.  Another 
epitaph  written  by  Somerville,  —  and  one  that  shows 
equally  the  kindness  of  his  heart  and  the  quaintness  of 
his  character,  —  appears  upon  a  little,  low,  lichen-covered 
stone  in  Wootton-Wawen  churchyard,  where  it  commem- 
orates his  huntsman  and  butler,  Jacob  Bocter,  who  was 
hurt  in  the  hunting-field,  and  died  of  this  accident:  — 

H.    S.    E. 

JACOBUS    BOCTER. 

GULIELMO   SOMERVILE   ARMIGRO 

PROMUS   ET   CANIBUS   VENATICIS 

PRAEPOSITOR 

DOMI.    FORISQUE   FIDELIS 

EQUO    INTER   VENANDUM    CORUENTE 

ET    INTESTINIS   GRAVITER   COLLISIS 

POST   TRIDUUM    DEPLORANDUS. 

OBIIT 

28    DIE  JAN., 

ANNO   DNI    1 7 19. 

AETAT   38. 


XII  RAMBLES   IN   ARDEN  1 85 

The  pilgrim  who  rambles  as  far  as  Wootton-Wavven 
will  surely  stroll  onward  to  Henley-in-Arden.  The  whole 
of  that  region  was  originally  covered  by  the  Forest  of 
Arden^  —  the  woods  that  Shakespeare  had  in  mind 
when  he  was  writing  As  Y021  Like  It,  a  comedy  whereof 
the  atmosphere,  foliage,  flowers,  scenery,  and  spirit  are 
purely  those  of  his  native  Warwickshire.  Henley,  if 
the  observer  may  judge  by  the  numerous  inns  that 
fringe  its  long,  straggling,  picturesque  street,  must  once 
have  been  a  favourite  halting-place  for  the  coaches  that 
plied  between  London  and  Birmingham.  They  are 
mostly  disused  now,  and  the  little  town  sleeps  in  the 
sun  and  seems  forgotten.^  There  is  a  beautiful  speci- 
men of  the  ancient  market-cross  in  its  centre,  —  gray 
and  sombre  and  much  frayed  by  the  tooth  of  time. 
Close  beside  Henley,  and  accessible  in  a  walk  of  a  few 
minutes,  is  the  church  of  Beaudesert,  which  is  one  of 
the  most  precious  of  the  ecclesiastic  gems  of  England. 
Here  you  will  see  architecture  of  mingled  Saxon  and 
Norman,  —  the  solid  Norman  buttress,  the  castellated 
tower,  the  Saxon  arch  moulded  in  zigzag,  which  is 
more  ancient  than  the  dog-tooth,  and  the  round,  com- 
pact columns  of  the  early  English  order.  Above  the 
church  rises  a  noble  mound,  upon  which,  in  the  middle 
ages,  stood  a  castle,  —  probably  that  of  Peter  de  Mont- 
fort,  —  and  from  which  a  comprehensive  and  superb  view 
may  be  obtained,  over  many  miles  of  verdant  meadow 
and  bosky  dell,  interspersed  with  red-roofed  villages  from 

1  That  learned  antiquarian  W.  G.  Fretton,  Esq.,  of  Coventry,  has  shown 
that  the  Forest  of  Arden  covered  a  large  tract  of  land  extending  many 
miles  west  and  north  of  the  bank  of  the  Avon,  around  Stratford. 

2  It  has  been  awakened.     A  railway  to  Henley  was  opened  in  1894. 


i86 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


which  the  smoke  of  the  cottage  chimneys  curls  up  in  thin 
blue  spirals  under  the  gray  and  golden  sunset  sky.  An 
old  graveyard  encircles  the  church,  and  by  its  orderly 
disorder,  —  the  quaint,  graceful  work  of  capricious  time, 
—  enhances  the  charm  of  its  venerable  and  storied  age. 

There  are  only  one  hundred 
and  forty-six  persons  in  the 
parish  of  Beaudesert.  I  was 
privileged  to  speak  with  the 
aged  rector,  the 
Rev.  John  An- 
thony Pearson 
Linskill,  and  to 
view  the  church 
under  his  kind- 
ly guidance.  In 
the  ordinary 
course  of  nat- 
ure it  is  un- 
likely that  we 
shall  ever  meet 
again,  but  his 
goodness,  his 
benevolent 
mind,  and  the 
charm  of  his 
artless  talk  will 
not  be  forgot- 
ten.^    My  walk 


Beaudesert  Cross. 


^  The  venerable  Mr.  Linskill  died  in  the  rectory  of  Beaudesert  in  Feb- 
ruary, 1890,  and  was  buried  within  the  shadow  of  the  church  that  he  loved. 
That  picturesque  rectory  of  Beaudesert  was  the  birthplace  of  Richard  Jago 
[1715-1781],  the  poet  who  wrote  Edgehill. 


XII 


RAMBLES   IN   ARDEN 


187 


that  night  took  me  miles  away,  —  to  Claverdon,  and  home 
by  Bearley ;  and  all  the  time  it  was  my  thought  that  the 
best  moments  of  our  lives  are  those  in  which  we  are 
touched,  chastened,  and  ennobled  by  parting  and  by 
regret.  Nothing  is  said  so  often  as  good-by.  But,  in 
the  lovely  words  of  Cowper, 

"The  path  of  sorrow,  and  that  path  alone, 
Leads  to  the  land  where  sorrow  is  unknown." 


CHAPTER   XIII 


THE    STRATFORD    FOUNTAIN 


MERICAN  interest  in  Stratford-upon- 
Avon  springs  out  of  a  love  for  the 
works  of  Shakespeare  as  profound  and 
passionate  as  that  of  the  most  sensitive 
and  reverent  of  the  poet's  countrymen. 
It  was  the  father  of  American  litera- 
ture, Washington  Irving,  who  in  modern  times  made 
the  first  pilgrimage  to  that  holy  land,  and  set  the 
good  example,  which  since  has  been  followed  by  thou- 
sands, of  worship  at  the  shrine  of  Shakespeare.  It 
was  an  American,  the  alert  and  expeditious  P.  T.  Bar- 
num,  who  by  suddenly  proposing  to  buy  the  Shake- 
speare cottage  and  transfer  it  to  America  startled  the 
English  into  buying  it  for  the  nation.  It  is,  in  part,  to 
Americans  that  Stratford  owes  the  Shakespeare  Memo- 
rial ;  for  while  the  land  on  which  it  stands  was  given  by 
that  public-spirited  citizen  of  Stratford,  Charles  Edward 
Flower,  —  a  sound  and  reverent  Shakespeare  scholar, 
as  his  acting  edition  of  the  plays  may  testify,  —  and 
while  money  to  pay  for  the  building  of  it  was  freely  con- 
tributed by  wealthy  residents  of  Warwickshire,  and  by 

1 88 


CHAi'.  XIII  THE    STRATFORD    FOUNTAIN  1 89 

men  of  all  ranks  throughout  the  kingdom,  the  gifts  and 
labours  of  Americans  were  not  lacking  to  that  good 
cause.  Edwin  Booth  was  one  of  the  earliest  contribu- 
tors to  the  Memorial  fund,  and  the  names  of  Mr.  Her- 
man Vezin,  Mr.  M.  D.  Conway,  Mr.  W.  H.  Reynolds, 
Mrs.  Bateman,  and  Mrs.  Louise  Chandler  Moulton 
appear  in  the  first  list  of  its  subscribers.  Miss  Kate 
Field  worked  for  its  advancement,  with  remarkable 
energy  and  practical  success.  Miss  Mary  Anderson 
acted  for  its  benefit,  on  August  29,  1885.  In  the  church 
of  the  Holy  Trinity,  where  Shakespeare's  dust  is  buried, 
a  beautiful  stained  window,  illustrative,  scripturally,  of 
that  solemn  epitome  of  human  life  which  the  poet  makes 
in  the  speech  of  Jaques  on  the  seven  ages  of  man, 
evinces  the  practical  devotion  of  the  American  pilgrim ; 
and  many  a  heart  has  been  thrilled  with  reverent  joy  to 
see  the  soft  light  that  streams  through  its  pictured  panes 
fall  gently  on  the  poet's  grave. 

Wherever  in  Stratford  you  come  upon  anything  asso- 
ciated, even  remotely,  with  the  name  and  fame  of 
Shakespeare,  there  you  will  find  the  gracious  tokens  of 
American  homage.  The  libraries  of  the  Birthplace  and 
of  the  Memorial  alike  contain  gifts  of  American  books. 
New  Place  and  Anne  Hathaway's  cottage  are  never 
omitted  from  the  American  traveller's  round  of  visita- 
tions and  duty  of  practical  tribute.  The  Falcon,  with 
its  store  of  relics ;  the  romantic  Shakespeare  Hotel, 
with  its  rambling  passages,  its  quaint  rooms  named 
after  Shakespeare's  characters,  its  antique  bar  parlour, 
and  the  rich  collection  of  autographs  and  pictures  that 
has  been  made  by  Mrs.  Justins;  the  Grammar  School, 
in  which    no    doubt   the  poet,  "with  shining   morning 


190  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

face  "  of  boyhood,  was  once  a  pupil ;  John  Marshall's 
antiquarian  workshop,  from  which  so  many  of  the  best 
souvenirs  of  Stratford  have  proceeded,  —  a  warm  re- 
membrance of  his  own  quaintness,  kindness,  and  origi- 
nality being  perhaps  the  most  precious  of  them ;  the 
Town  Hall,  adorned  with  Gainsborough's  eloquent  por- 
trait of  Garrick,  to  which  no  engraving  does  justice  ;  the 
Guild  chapel;  the  Clopton  bridge;  Lucy's  mill;  the 
footpath  across  fields  and  roads  to  Shottery,  bosomed  in 
great  elms ;  and  the  ancient  picturesque  building,  four 
miles  away,  at  Wilmcote,  which  was  the  home  of  Mary 
Arden,  Shakespeare's  mother,  —  each  and  every  one  of 
those  storied  places  receives,  in  turn,  the  tribute  of  the 
wandering  American,  and  each  repays  him  a  hundred- 
fold in  charming  suggestiveness  of  association,  in  high 
thought,  and  in  the  lasting  impulse  of  sweet  and  sooth- 
ing poetic  reverie.  At  the  Red  Horse,  where  Mr. 
William  Gardner  Colbourne  maintains  the  traditions  of 
old-fashioned  English  hospitality,  he  finds  his  home ; 
well  pleased  to  muse  and  dream  in  Washington  Irving's 
parlour,  while  the  night  deepens  and  the  clock  in  the 
distant  tower  murmurs  drowsily  in  its  sleep.  Those 
who  will  may  mock  at  his  enthusiasm.  He  would  not 
feel  it  but  for  the  spell  that  Shakespeare's  genius  has 
cast  upon  the  world.  He  ought  to  be  glad  and  grate- 
ful that  he  can  feel  that  spell ;  and,  since  he  does  feel 
it,  nothing  could  be  more  natural  than  his  desire  to 
signify  that  he  too,  though  born  far  away  from  the  old 
home  of  his  race,  and  separated  from  it  by  three  thou- 
sand miles  of  stormy  ocean,  has  still  his  part  in  the 
divine  legacy  of  Shakespeare,  the  treasure  and  the 
glory  of  the  English  tongue. 


XIII 


THE   STRATFORD    FOUNTAIN 


191 


A  noble  token  of  this  American  sentiment,  and  a 
permanent  object  of  interest  to  the  pilgrim  in  Strat- 
ford, is  supplied  by  the  Jubilee  gift  of  a  drinking- 
fountain  made  to  that  city  by  George  W.  Childs  of 
Philadelphia.  It  never  is  a  surprise  to  hear  of  some 
new  instance  of  that  good  man's  constant  activity  and 
splendid  generosity  in 
good  works;  it  is  only 
an  accustomed  pleas- 
ure.^ With  fine-art  testi- 
monials in  the  old  world 
as  well  as  at  home  his 
name  will  always  be  hon- 
ourably associated.  A 
few  years  ago  he  pre- 
sented a  superb  window 
of  stained  glass  to  West- 
minster Abbey,  to  com- 
memorate, in  Poets'  Cor- 
ner, George  Herbert  and 
William  Cowper.  He 
has  since  given  to  St. 
Margaret's  church, 
Westminster,  where  John  Skelton  and  Sir  James  Har- 
rington [1611-1677]  were  entombed,  and  where  was 
buried  the  headless  body  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  a  pic- 
torial window  commemorative  of  John  Milton.  His 
fountain  at  Stratford  was  dedicated  on  October  17,  1887, 
with  appropriate  ceremonies  conducted  by  Sir  Arthur 
Hodgson,  of  Clopton,  then    mayor,   and   amid    general 

1  Like  many  other  pleasures  it  has  now  become  only  a  memory.     Mr. 
Childs  died,  in  Philadelphia,  February  3,  1894. 


lleiny  Irving.     i£ 


192  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

rejoicing.  Henry  Irving,  the  leader  of  the  English 
stage  and  the  most  illustrious  of  English  actors  since 
the  age  of  Garrick,  delivered  an  address  of  singular 
felicity  and  eloquence,  and  also  read  a  poem  by  Oliver 
Wendell  Holmes.  The  countrymen  of  Mr.  Childs  are 
not  less  interested  in  this  structure  than  the  community 
that  it  was  intended  to  honour  and  benefit.  They  ob- 
serve with  satisfaction  and  pride  that  he  has  made  this 
beneficent,  beautiful,  and  opulent  offering  to  a  town 
which,  for  all  of  them,  is  hallowed  by  exalted  associa- 
tions, and  for  many  of  them  is  endeared  by  delightful 
memories.  They  sympathise  also  with  the  motive  and 
feeling  that  prompted  him  to  offer  his  gift  as  one 
among  many  memorials  of  the  fiftieth  year  of  the 
reign  of  Queen  Victoria.  It  is  not  every  man  who 
knows  how  to  give  with  grace,  and  the  good  deed  is 
"done  double"  that  is  done  at  the  right  time.  Strat- 
ford had  long  been  in  need  of  such  a  fountain  as  Mr. 
Childs  has  given,  and  therefore  it  satisfies  a  public 
want,  at  the  same  time  that  it  serves  a  purpose  of 
ornamentation  and  bespeaks  and  strengthens  a  bond 
of  international  sympathy.  Rother  street,  in  which 
the  structure  stands,  is  the  most  considerable  open 
place  in  Stratford,  and  is  situated  near  the  centre  of 
the  town,  on  the  west  side.  There,  as  also  at  the  in- 
tersection of  High  and  Bridge  streets,  which  are  the 
principal  thoroughfares  of  the  city,  the  farmers,  at 
stated  intervals,  range  their  beasts  and  wagons  and 
hold  a  market.  It  is  easy  to  foresee  that  Rother,  em- 
bellished with  this  monument,  which  combines  a  con- 
venient clock  tower,  a  place  of  rest  and  refreshment  for 
man,  and  commodious  drinking-troughs  for  horses,  cat- 


xin  .TFORIJ   FOUNTAIN 

vjii  ooon  become  the  agricultural 

...^   iiionument  is  made  of    Peterhead 
.    .-superstructure    is    of    gray   stone,    from 
Vorkshire.     The  height  of   the    tower  is  fifty 
On    the   north  side    a   stream  of   waJt-r,  flowing 
constantly  from  a  bronze   spout,  falls  into  a   polished 
granite   basin.     On    the  south  side  a  door  opens   into 
the   interior.     The    decorations    include    sculptures    of 
the  arms  of   Great    Britain  alternated  with  the   eagle 
and  stripes  of  the  American  republic.     In  the  .second 
story  of  the  tower,  lighted  by  glazed  arches,  is  placed  a 
clock,  and  on  the  outward  faces  of  the  third  story  ap- 
pear four  di^^s^^y^hg^^^:jiX^.j.|^^"T turrets  surrounding 
a  central  spire,  each  surmounted  with  a  gilded  vane. 
The    inscriptions    on    the    base   were    deviser!    ^^'     Sir 
Arthur  Hodgson,  and  are  these  : 


.re  W.  Child.s,  of  Philadelphia, 
.,  in  the  Jubilee  year 
Victoria. 


[ 

The  .   . 
God  shii' 
From  he)  m 

And  bv  thos! 


Henry 


III 

Honest  water,  which  ne'er  left  ir. 
Timon  of  Ai 

N 


I 


THE    STRATFORD    FOUNTAIN 


xiii  THE   STRATFORD   FOUNTAIN  1 93 

tie,  dogs,  and  sheep,  will  soon  become  the  agricultural 
centre  of  the  region. 

The  base  of  the  monument  is  made  of  Peterhead 
granite ;  the  superstructure  is  of  gray  stone,  from 
Bolton,  Yorkshire.  The  height  of  the  tower  is  fifty 
feet.  On  the  north  side  a  stream  of  water,  flowing 
constantly  from  a  bronze  spout,  falls  into  a  polished 
granite  basin.  On  the  south  side  a  door  opens  into 
the  interior.  The  decorations  include  sculptures  of 
the  arms  of  Great  Britain  alternated  with  the  eagle 
and  stripes  of  the  American  republic.  In  the  second 
story  of  the  tower,  lighted  by  glazed  arches,  is  placed  a 
clock,  and  on  the  outward  faces  of  the  third  story  ap- 
pear four  dials.  There  are  four  turrets  surrounding 
a  central  spire,  each  surmounted  with  a  gilded  vane. 
The  inscriptions  on  the  base  were  devised  by  Sir 
Arthur  Hodgson,  and  are  these  : 


The  gift  of  an  American  citizen,  George  W.  Cliilds,  of  Philadelphia, 

to  the  town  of  Shakespeare,  in  the  Jubilee  year 

of  Queen  Victoria. 

II 

In  her  days  every  man  shall  eat,  in  safety 
Under  his  own  vine,  what  he  plants ;  and  sing 
The  merry  songs  of  peace  to  all  his  neighbours. 
God  shall  be  truly  known  :  and  those  about  her 
From  her  shall  read  the  perfect  ways  of  honour. 
And  by  those  claim  their  greatness,  not  by  blood. 

Henry  VJII.,  Act  v.  Scene  4. 

Ill 
Honest  water,  which  ne'er  left  man  i'  the  mire. 

Timon  of  Athens,  Act  i.  Scene  2. 

N 


194  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  chap. 


IV 


Ten  thousand  honours  and  blessings  on  the  bard  who  has  thus 
gilded  the  dull  realities  of  life  with  innocent  illusions. —  Washitig- 
ion  Irving' s  Stratford-on-Avon. 

Stratford-upon-Avon,  fortunate  in  many  things,  is 
especially  fortunate  in  being  situated  at  a  considerable 
distance  from  the  main  line  of  any  railway.  Two  rail- 
roads skirt  the  town,  but  both  are  branches,  and  travel 
upon  them  has  not  yet  become  too  frequent.  Stratford, 
therefore,  still  retains  a  measure  of  its  ancient  isolation, 
and  consequently  a  flavour  of  quaintness.  Antique  cus- 
toms are  still  prevalent  there,  and  odd  characters  may 
still  be  encountered.  The  current  of  village  gossip  flows 
with  incessant  vigour,  and  nothing  happens  in  the  place 
that  is  not  thoroughly  discussed  by  its  inhabitants.  An 
event  so  important  as  the  establishment  of  the  Ameri- 
can Fountain  would  excite  great  interest  throughout 
Warwickshire.  It  would  be  pleasant  to  hear  the  talk 
of  those  old  cronies  who  drift  into  the  bar  parlour  of 
the  Red  Horse  on  a  Saturday  evening,  as  they  com- 
ment on  the  liberal  American  who  has  thus  enriched 
and  beautified  their  town.  The  Red  Horse  circle  is 
but  one  of  many  in  which  the  name  of  Childs  is 
spoken  with  esteem  and  cherished  with  affection.  The 
present  writer  has  made  many  visits  to  Stratford  and  has 
passed  much  time  there,  and  he  has  observed  on  many 
occasions  the  admiration  and  gratitude  of  the  Warwick- 
shire people  for  the  American  philanthropist.  In  the  li- 
brary of  Charles  Edward  Plower,  at  Avonbank ;  in  the 
opulent  mansion  of  Edgar  Flower,  at  the  Hill ;  in  the 
lovely  home  of  Alderman  Bird  ;  at  the  hospitable  table 


XIII  THE   STRATFORD   P'OUNTAIN 


195 


of  Sir  Arthur  Hodgson,  in  Clopton  ;  and  in  many  other 
representative  places  he  has  heard  that  name  spoken, 
and  always  with  delight  and  honour.  Time  will  only 
deepen  and  widen  the  loving  respect  with  which  it  is 
hallowed.  In  England,  more  than  anywhere  else  on 
earth,  the  record  of  good  deeds  is  made  permanent,  not 
alone  with  imperishable  symbols,  but  in  the  hearts  of 
the  people.  The  inhabitants  of  Warwickshire,  guard- 
ing and  maintaining  their  Stratford  Fountain,  will  not 
forget  by  whom  it  was  given.  Wherever  you  go,  in  the 
British  islands,  you  find  memorials  of  the  past  and  of 
individuals  who  have  done  good  deeds  in  their  time,  and 
you  also  find  that  those  memorials  are  respected  and 
preserved.  Warwickshire  abounds  with  them.  Many 
such  emblems  might  be  indicated.  Each  one  of  them 
takes  its  place  in  the  regard  and  gradually  becomes  en- 
twined with  the  experience  of  the  whole  community. 
So  it  will  be  with  the  Childs  Fountain  at  Stratford. 
The  children  trooping  home  from  school  will  drink  of 
it  and  sport  in  its  shadow,  and,  reading  upon  its  base 
the  name  of  its  founder,  will  think  with  pleasure  of  a 
good  man's  gift.  It  stands  in  the  track  of  travel  be- 
tween Banbury,  Shipston,  Stratford,  and  Birmingham, 
and  many  weary  men  and  horses  will  pause  beside  it 
every  day,  for  a  moment  of  refreshment  and  rest.  On 
festival  days  it  will  be  hung  with  garlands,  while  around 
it  the  air  is  glad  with  music.  And  often  in  the  long, 
sweet  gloaming  of  the  summertimes  to  come  the  rower 
on  the  limpid  Avon,  that  murmurs  by  the  ancient  town 
of  Shakespeare,  will  pause  with  suspended  oar  to  hear 
its  silver  chimes.  If  the  founder  of  that  fountain  had 
been  capable  of  a  selfish  thought  he  could  have  taken 


196 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


no  way  better  or  more  certain  than  this  for  the  per- 
petuation of  his  name  in  the  affectionate  esteem  of 
one  of  the  lovehest  places  and  one  of  the  most  sedate 
communities  in  the  world. 

Autumn  in  England  —  and  all  the  country  ways  of 
lovely  Warwickshire  are  strewn  with  fallen  leaves. 
But  the  cool  winds  are  sweet  and  bracing,  the  dark 
waters   of    the   Avon,   shimmering  in  mellow  sunlight 


Afary  Arden's   Cottage. 


C^l^x^:^^ 


and  frequent  shadow,  flow  softly  past  the  hallowed 
church,  and  the  reaped  and  gleaned  and  empty  mead- 
ows invite  to  many  a  healthful  ramble,  far  and  wide 
over  the  country  of  Shakespeare.  It  is  a  good  time 
to  be  there.  Now  will  the  robust  pedestrian  make  his 
jaunt  to  Charlecote  Park  and  Hampton  Lucy,  to  Stone- 
leigh  Abbey,  to  Warwick  and  Kenilworth,  to  Guy's 
Cliff,  with  its  weird  avenue  of  semi-blasted  trees,  to  the 


XIII 


THE   STRATFORD  FOUNTAIN 


197 


Blacklow  Hill,  —  where  sometimes  at  still  midnight  the 
shuddering  peasant  hears  the  ghostly  funeral  bell  of 
Sir  Piers  Gaveston  sounding  ruefully  from  out  the 
black  and  gloomy  woods,  —  and  to  many  another  his- 
toric haunt  and  high  poetic  shrine.  All  the  country- 
side is  full  of  storied  resorts  and  cosey  nooks  and  com- 
fortable inns.  But  neither  now  nor  hereafter  will  it 
be  otherwise  than  grateful  and  touching  to  such  an 
explorer  of  haunted  Warwickshire  to  see,  among  the 
emblems  of  poetry  and  romance  which  are  its  chief 
glory,  this  new  token  of  American  sentiment  and  friend- 
ship, the  Fountain  of  Stratford. 


'    .t^  *-c  *.i-,  ^^  ♦^  «. 


.i^C*  ^.2*;^*  ^  Z^I^  2"  ^*5 1*  ^  ^  3 


CHAPTER    XIV 


BOSWORTH    FIELD 


jARWICK,  August  29,  1889.  — It  has  long- 
been  the  conviction  of  the  present  writer 
that  the  character  of  King  Richard  the 
Third  has  been  distorted  and  maligned 
by  the  old  historians  from  whose  author- 
ity the  accepted  view  of  it  is  derived.  He 
was,  it  is  certain,  a  superb  soldier,  a  wise  statesman,  a 
judicious  legislator,  a  natural  ruler  of  men,  and  a  prince 
most  accomplished  in  music  and  the  fine  arts  and  in 
the  graces  of  social  life.  Some  of  the  best  laws  that 
ever  were  enacted  in  England  were  enacted  during  his 
reign.  His  title  to  the  throne  of  England  was  abso- 
lutely clear,  as  against  the  Earl  of  Richmond,  and  but 
for  the  treachery  of  some  among  his  followers  he  would 
have  prevailed  in  the  contest  upon  Bosworth  Field,  and 
would  have  vindicated  and  maintained  that  title  over  all 
opposition.  He  lost  the  battle,  and  he  was  too  great 
a  man  to  survive  the  ruin  of  his  fortunes.  He  threw 
away  his  life  in  the  last  mad  charge  upon  Richmond 
that  day,  and  when  once  the  grave  had  closed  over 
him,  and  his  usurping  cousin  had   seized  the   English 

198 


CHAP.  XIV  BOSWORTH    FIP:i.D  199 

crown,  it  naturally  must  have  become  the  easy  as  well 
as  the  politic  business  of  history  to  blacken  his  char- 
acter. England  was  never  ruled  by  a  more  severe 
monarch  than  the  austere,  crafty,  avaricious  Henry  the 
Seventh,  and  it  is  certain  that  no  word  in  praise  of  his 
predecessor  could  have  been  publicly  said  in  England 
during  Henry's  reign :  neither  would  it  have  been 
wholly  safe  for  anybody  to  speak  for  Richard  and  the 
House  of  York,  in  the  time  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  the 
cruel  Mary,  or  the  illustrious  Elizabeth.  The  drift,  in 
fact,  was  all  the  other  way.  The  Life  of  Richard  the 
Third,  by  Sir  Thomas  More,  is  the  fountain-head  of  the 
other  narratives  of  his  career,  and  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  More,  who  as  a  youth  had  lived  at  Canter- 
bury, in  the  palace  of  Archbishop  Morton,  derived  his 
views  of  Richard  from  that  prelate,  —  to  whose  hand 
indeed,  the  essential  part  of  the  Life  has  been  attrib- 
uted. "  Morton  is  fled  to  Richmond."  He  was  Bishop 
of  Ely  when  he  deserted  the  king,  and  Henry  the 
Seventh  rewarded  him  by  making  him  Archbishop  of 
Canterbury.  No  man  of  the  time  was  so  little  likely 
as  Morton  to  take  an  unprejudiced  view  of  Richard  the 
Third.  It  is  the  Morton  view  that  has  become  history. 
The  world  still  looks  at  Richard  through  the  eyes  of 
his  victorious  foe.  Moreover,  the  Morton  view  has 
been  stamped  indelibly  upon  the  imagination  and  the 
credulity  of  mankind  by  the  overwhelming  and  irresisti- 
ble genius  of  Shakespeare,  who  wrote  Richard  the 
Third  in  the  reign  of  the  granddaughter  of  Henry  the 
Seventh,  and  who,  aside  from  the  safeguard  of  dis- 
cretion, saw  dramatic  possibilities  in  the  man  of  dark 
passions  and  deeds  that  he  could   not  have  seen  in  a 


200  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

more  human  and  a  more  virtuous  monarch.  Goodness 
is  generally  monotonous.  "  The  low  sun  makes  the 
colour."  It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Richard  was  a 
model  man  ;  but  there  are  good  reasons  for  thinking 
that  he  was  not  so  black  as  his  enemies  painted  him ; 
and,  good  or  bad,  he  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
personalities  that  history  and  literature  have  made 
immortal.  It  was  with  no  common  emotion,  therefore, 
that  I  stood  upon  the  summit  of  Ambien  Hill  and 
looked  downward  over  the  plain  where  Richard  fought 
his  last  fight  and  went  gloriously  to  his  death. 

The  battle  of  Bosworth  Field  was  fought  on  August 
22,  1485.  More  than  four  hundred  years  have  passed 
since  then  :  yet  except  for  the  incursions  of  a  canal  and 
a  railway  the  aspect  of  that  plain  is  but  little  changed 
from  what  it  was  when  Richard  surveyed  it,  on  that 
gray  and  sombre  morning  when  he  beheld  the  forces  of 
Richmond  advancing  past  the  marsh  and  knew  that  the 
crisis  of  his  life  had  come.  The  earl  was  pressing  for- 
ward that  day  from  Tamworth  and  Atherstone,  which 
are  in  the  northern  part  of  Warwickshire,  —  the  latter 
being  close  upon  the  Leicestershire  border.  His  course 
was  a  little  to  the  southeast,  and  Richard's  forces,  facing 
northwesterly,  confronted  their  enemies  from  the  summit 
of  a  long  and  gently  sloping  hill  that  extends  for  several 
miles,  about  east  and  west,  from  Market  Bosworth  on 
the  right,  to  the  vicinity  of  Dadlington  on  the  left.  The 
king's  position  had  been  chosen  with  an  excellent  judg- 
ment that  has  more  than  once,  in  modern  times,  elicited 
the  admiration  of  accompHshed  soldiers.  His  right 
wing,  commanded  by  Lord  Stanley,  rested  on  Bosworth. 
His  left  was  protected  by  a  marsh,  impassable  to  the 


200  GK.W    {>AY3   AND   GOLD  chav. 

more  huir ....  .  ,.,.  .:  ,..  ....  virtuous  monarch.     Goodness 

is  gencrp'lv  monotonous.  "The  low  sun  makes  the 
c'^inir  to  be  supposed  that  Richard  was  a 

'C  good  reasons  for  thinking 

his  enemies  painted  him ; 

f  the  most  fascinating 

'  erature    have   made 

.  was  motion,  therefore, 

stood    upon    I  \mbien    Hill  and 

n.-vivvd  downward  over  tne  piam  wncie  Richard  fought 

his  last  fight  and  went  gloriously  to  his  death. 

'^'  -^  battle  of  Bosworth  Field  was  fought  on  August 

'IT-...         *-'.,,,..       f,,:,,  V;.  .,;,]••,., T        V.       5VL        I"!  ^  VC       paSSCd 

^  ,„,^  ,,^  i  canal  and 

..^v  :.!:.;;;   !:■>  but  liltk  chanafcd 
from  what  it  was  when  Richard  surveved  i*. 
ur.:\y  and  sombre  morning  when  b*  =1 

Richmond  advancing"  »  ' 

crisis  of  his  life  was  pressing  tor- 

ward  that  worth  and  Atherstone,  which 

are  in  '  cm  part  of  Warwickshire, — the  latter 

being  close  upon  the  Leicestershire  border.  His  course 
was  a  little  to  the  southeast,  and  Richard's  forces,  facing 
northwesterly,  confronted  their  enemies  from,  the  summit 
of  a  long  and  gently  sloping  hill  that  extends  for  several 
miles,  about  east  and  west,  from  Market  Bosworth  on 
the  right,  to  the  vicinity  of  Dadlington  on  the  left.  The 
king's  position  had  been  chosen  with  an  excellent  judg- 
ment that  has  more  than  once,  in  modern  times,  elicited 
the  admiration  of  accomplished  soldiers.  His  right 
wing,  commanded  by  Lord  Stanley,  rested  on  Bosworth. 
His  left  was  protected  by  a  m.arsb,  impassable  to  the 


XIV  BOSWORTH    FIELD  20I 

foe.  Sir  William  Stanley  commanded  the  left  and  had 
his  headquarters  in  Dadlington.  Richard  rode  in  the 
centre.  Far  to  the  right  he  saw  the  clustered  houses 
and  the  graceful  spire  of  Bosworth,  and  far  to  the  left 
his  glance  rested  on  the  little  church  of  Dadlington.  Be- 
low and  in  front  of  him  all  was  open  field,  and  all  across 
that  field  waved  the  banners  and  sounded  the  trumpets 
of  rebellion  and  defiance.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  the 
glowing  emotions, — the  implacable  resentment,  the 
passionate  fury,  and  the  deadly  purpose  of  slaughter 
and  vengeance,  —  with  which  the  imperious  and  terrible 
monarch  gazed  on  his  approaching  foes.  They  show, 
in  a  meadow,  a  little  way  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  where 
it  is  marked  and  partly  covered  now  by  a  pyramidal  struct- 
ure of  gray  stones,  suitably  inscribed  with  a  few  com- 
memorative lines  in  Latin,  a  spring  of  water  at  which 
Richard  paused  to  quench  his  thirst,  before  he  made 
that  last  desperate  charge  on  Radmore  heath,  when  at 
length  he  knew  himself  betrayed  and  abandoned,  and 
felt  that  his  only  hope  lay  in  killing  the  Earl  of  Rich- 
mond with  his  own  hand.  The  fight  at  Bosworth  was 
not  a  long  one.  Both  the  Stanleys  deserted  the  king's 
standard  early  in  the  day.  It  was  easy  for  them,  posted 
as  they  were,  to  wheel  their  forces  into  the  rear  of  the 
rebel  army,  at  the  right  and  at  the  left.  Nothing  then 
remained  for  Richard  but  to  rush  down  upon  the  centre, 
where  he  saw  the  banner  of  Richmond,  —  borne,  at  that 
moment,  by  Sir  John  Cheyney, — and  to  crush  the  treason 
at  its  head.  It  must  have  been  a  charge  of  tremendous 
impetuosity.  It  bore  the  fiery  king  a  long  way  forward 
on  the  level  plain.  He  struck  down  Cheyney,  a  man  of 
almost  gigantic  stature.     He  killed  Sir  William  Brandon. 


202  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

He  plainly  saw  the  Earl  of  Richmond,  and  came  almost 
near  enough  to  encounter  him,  when  a  score  of  swords 
were  buried  in  his  body,  and,  hacked  almost  into  pieces, 
he  fell  beneath  heaps  of  the  slain.  The  place  of  his 
death  is  now  the  junction  of  three  country  roads,  one 
leading  northwest  to  Shenton,  one  southwest  to  Dadling- 
ton,  and  one  bearing  away  easterly  toward  Bosworth. 
A  little  brook,  called  Sandy  Ford,  flows  underneath  the 
road,  and  there  is  a  considerable  coppice  in  the  field  at 
the  junction.  Upon  the  peaceful  sign-board  appear  the 
names  of  Dadlington  and  Hinckley.  Not  more  than  five 
hundred  feet  distant,  to  the  eastward,  rises  the  embank- 
ment of  a  branch  of  the  Midland  Railway,  from  Nunea- 
ton to  Leicester,  while  at  about  the  same  distance  to  the 
westward  rises  the  similar  embankment  of  a  canal.  No 
monument  has  been  erected  to  mark  the  spot  where 
Richard  the  Third  was  slain.  They  took  up  his  mangled 
body,  threw  it  across  a  horse,  and  carried  it  into  the  town 
of  Leicester,  and  there  it  was  buried,  in  the  church  of  the 
Gray  Friars,  —  also  the  sepulchre  of  Cardinal  Wolsey, — 
now  a  ruin.  The  only  commemorative  mark  upon  the 
battlefield  is  the  pyramid  at  the  well,  and  that  stands 
at  a  long  distance  from  the  place  of  the  king's  fall.  I 
tried  to  picture  the  scene  of  his  final  charge  and  his 
frightful  death,  as  I  stood  there  upon  the  hillside.  Many 
little  slate-coloured  clouds  were  drifting  across  a  pale 
blue  sky.  A  cool  summer  breeze  was  sighing  in  the 
branches  of  the  neighbouring  trees.  The  bright  green 
sod  was  all  alive  with  the  sparkling  yellow  of  the  colt's- 
foot  and  the  soft  red  of  the  clover.  Birds  were  whist- 
ling from  the  coppice  near  by,  and  overhead  the  air  was 
flecked  with  innumerable  black  pinions  of  fugitive  rooks 


XIV  BOSWORTH   FIELD  203 

and  starlings.  It  did  not  seem  possible  that  a  sound  of 
war  or  a  deed  of  violence  could  ever  have  intruded  to 
break  the  Sabbath  stillness  of  that  scene  of  peace. 

The  water  of  King  Richard's  Well  is  a  shallow  pool, 
choked  now  with  moss  and  weeds.  The  inscription, 
which  was  written  by  Dr.  Samuel  Parr,  of  Hatton,  reads 
as  follows  : 

AQVA.  EX.   HOC   PVTEO.  HAVSTA 

SITIM.    SEDAVIT. 

RICHARDVS.    TERTIVS.    REX.   ANGLIAE 

CVM    HENRICO.    COMITE   DE   RICHMONDIA 

ACERRIME.   ATQVE.    INGENTISSIME.   PRAELIANS 

ET.  VITA.    PARITER.    AC.    SCEPTRO 

ANTE   NOCTEM.    CARITVRUS 

II    KAL.    SEP.    A.D.    M.C.C.C.C.LXXXV. 

There  are  five  churches  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood of  Bosworth  Field,  all  of  which  were  in  one  way 
or  another  associated  with  that  memorable  battle.  Rat- 
cliffe  Culey  church  has  a  low  square  tower  and  a  short 
stone  spire,  and  there  is  herbage  growing  upon  its  tower 
and  its  roof.  It  is  a  building  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
one  mark  of  this  period  being  its  perpendicular  stone 
font,  an  octagon  in  shape,  and  much  frayed  by  time. 
In  three  arches  of  its  chancel,  on  the  south  side,  the 
sculpture  shows  tri-foliated  forms,  of  exceptional  beauty. 
In  the  east  window  there  are  fragments  of  old  glass, 
rich  in  colour  and  quaint  and  singular.  The  church- 
yard is  full  of  odd  gravestones,  various  in  shape  and 
irregular  in  position.  An  ugly  slate-stone  is  much  used 
in  Leicestershire  for  monuments  to  the  dead.  Most  of 
those  stones  record  modern  burials,  the  older  graves 
being  unmarked.  The  grass  grows  thick  and  dense  all 
over  the  churchyard.     Upon  the  church  walls  are  sev- 


204 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  CHAP. 


eral  fine  specimens  of  those  mysterious  ray  and  circle 
marks  which  have  long  been  a  puzzle  to  the  archaeo- 
logical explorer.  Such  marks  are  usually  found  in  the 
last  bay  but  one,  on  the  south  side  of  the  nave,  toward 
the  west  end  of  the  church.  On  Ratcliffe  Culey  church 
they  consist  of  central  points  with  radial  lines,  like  a 
star,  but  these  are  not  enclosed,  as  often  happens,  with 
circle  lines.  Various  theories  have  been  advanced  by 
antiquarians  to  account  for  these  designs.  Probably 
those  marks  were  cut  upon  the  churches,  by  the  pious 
monks  of  old,  as  emblems  of  eternity  and  of  the  Sun 
of  Righteousness. 

Shenton  Hall  (1629),  long  and  still  the  seat  of  the 
Woollastons,  stood  directly  in  the  path  of  the  comba- 
tants at  Bosworth  Field,  and  the  fury  of  the  battle  must 
have  raged  all  around  it.  The  Hall  has  been  recased, 
and,  except  for  its  old  gatehouse  and  semi-octagon  bays, 
which  are  of  the  Tudor  style,  it  presents  a  modern  as- 
pect. Its  windows  open  toward  Radmore  heath  and 
Ambien  Hill,  the  scene  of  the  conflict  between  the  Red 
Rose  and  the  White.  The  church  has  been  entirely  re- 
built, —  a  handsome  edifice,  of  crucial  form,  containing 
costly  pews  of  old  oak,  together  with  interesting  brasses 
and  busts,  taken  from  the  old  church  which  it  has  re- 
placed. The  brasses  commemorate  Richard  Coate  and 
Joyce  his  wife,  and  Richard  Everard  and  his  wife,  and 
are  dated  1556,  1597,  and  1616.  The  busts  are  of  white 
marble,  dated  1666,  and  are  commemorative  of  William 
Woollaston  and  his  wife,  once  lord  and  lady  of  the  manor 
of  Shenton.  It  was  the  rule,  in  building  churches,  that 
one  end  should  face  to  the  east  and  the  other  to  the 
west,  but  you  frequently  find  an  old  church  that  is  set 


XIV  BOSWORTir   FIELD  205 

at  a  slightly  different  angle, — that,  namely,  at  which 
the  sun  arose  on  the  birthday  of  the  saint  to  whom  the 
church  was  dedicated.  The  style  of  large  east  and  west 
windows,  with  trefoil  or  other  ornamentation  in  the  heads 
of  the  arches,  came  into  vogue  about  the  time  of  Edward 
the  First. 

Dadlington  was  Richard's  extreme  left  on  the  day  of 
the  battle,  and  Bosworth  was  his  extreme  right.  These 
positions  were  intrusted  to  the  Stanleys,  both  of  whom 
betrayed  their  king.  Sir  William  Stanley's  headquarters 
were  at  Dadlington,  and  traces  of  the  earthworks  then 
thrown  up  there,  by  Richard's  command,  are  still  visible. 
Dadlington  church  has  almost  crumbled  to  pieces,  and 
it  is  to  be  restored.  It  is  a  diminutive  structure,  with  a 
wooden  tower,  stuccoed  walls,  and  a  tiled  roof,  and  it 
stands  in  a  graveyard  full  of  scattered  mounds  and 
slate-stone  monuments.  It  was  built  in  Norman  times, 
and  although  still  used  it  has  long  been  little  better 
than  a  ruin.  One  of  the  bells  in  its  tower  is  marked 
"Thomas  Arnold  fecit,  1763,"  —  but  this  is  compara- 
tively a  modern  touch.  The  church  contains  two  pointed 
arches,  and  across  its  roof  are  five  massive  oak  beams, 
almost  black  with  age.  The  plaster  ceiling  has  fallen, 
in  several  places,  so  that  patches  of  laths  are  visible  in 
the  roof.  The  pews  are  square,  box-like  structures, 
made  of  oak  and  very  old.  The  altar  is  a  plain  oak 
table,  supported  on  carved  legs,  covered  with  a  cloth. 
On  the  west  wall  appears  a  tablet,  inscribed  "Thomas 
Eames,  church-warden,  1773."  Many  human  skeletons, 
arranged  in  regular  tiers,  were  found  in  Dadlington 
churchyard,  when  a  much-beloved  clergyman,  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Bourne,  was  buried,  in  1881  ;  and  it  is  believed  that 


2o6  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

those  are  remains  of  men  who  fell  at  Bosworth  Field. 
The  only  inn  at  this  lonely  place  bears  the  quaint  name 
of  The  Dog  and  Hedgehog. 

The  following  queer  epitaph  appears  upon  a  grave- 
stone in  Dadlington  churchyard.  It  is  Thomas  Holland, 
1765,  who  thus  expresses  his  mind,  in  mortuary  remi- 
niscence : 

"  I  lov'd  my  Honour'd  Parents  dear, 
I  lov'd  my  Wife's  and  Children  dear, 
And  hope  in  Heaven  to  meet  them  there. 
I  lov'd  my  Brothers  &  Sisters  too, 
And  hope  I  shall  them  in  Heaven  view. 
I  lov'd  my  Vncle's,  Aunt's,  &  Cousin's  too 
And  I  pray  God  to  give  my  cliildren  grace  the  same  to  do." 

Stoke  Golding  church  was  built  in  the  fourteenth 
century.  It  stands  now,  a  gray  and  melancholy  relic 
of  other  days,  strange  and  forlorn  yet  august  and 
stately,  in  a  little  brick  village,  the  streets  of  which 
are  paved,  like  those  of  a  city,  with  blocks  of  stone. 
It  is  regarded  as  one  of  the  best  specimens  extant  of 
the  decorative  style  of  early  English  ecclesiastical 
architecture.  It  has  a  fine  tower  and  spire,  and  it  con- 
sists of  nave,  chantry,  and  south  aisle.  There  is  a 
perforated  parapet  on  one  side,  but  not  on  the  other. 
The  walls  of  the  nave  and  the  chancel  are  continuous. 
The  pinnacles,  though  decayed,  show  that  they  must 
have  been  beautifully  carved.  One  of  the  decorative 
pieces  upon  one  of  them  is  a  rabbit  with  his  ears  laid 
back.  Lichen  and  grass  are  growing  on  the  tower  and 
on  the  walls.  The  roof  is  of  oak,  the  mouldings  of  the 
arches  are  exceptionally  graceful,  and  the  capitals  of  the 
five  main  columns  present,  in  marked  diversity,  carvings 


XIV 


BOSWORTH    FIELD 


207 


of  faces,  flowers,  and  leaves.  The  tomb  of  the  founder  is 
on  the  north  side,  and  the  stone  pavement  is  everywhere 
lettered  with  inscriptions  of  burial.  There  is  a  fine 
mural  brass,  bearing  the  name  of  Brokesley,  1633,  and 
a  superb  "stocke  chest,"  1636;  and  there  is  a  sculptured 
font,  of  exquisite  symmetry.  Some  of  the  carving  upon 
the  oak  roof  is  more  grotesque  than  decorative,  —  but 
this  is  true  of  most  other  carving  to  be  found  in  ancient 
churches ;  such,  for  example,  as  you  may  see  under 
the  miserere  seats  in  the  chancel  of  Trinity  at    Strat- 


ll,,lll'l;A, 


"'mr^M 


■>■-.  i,?iS 


Higham-on-the-H'dl. 

ford-upon-Avon.  There  was  formerly  some  beautiful 
old  stained  glass  in  the  east  window  of  Stoke  Golding 
church,  but  this  has  disappeared.  A  picturesque  stone 
slab,  set  upon  the  church  wall  outside,  arrests  attention 
by  its  pleasing  shape,  its  venerable  aspect,  and  its  de- 
cayed lettering ;  the  date  is  1684.  Many  persons  slain 
at  Bosworth  Field  were  buried  in  Stoke  Golding  church- 
yard, and  over  their  nameless  graves  the  long  grass  is 
waving,  in  indolent  luxuriance  and  golden  light.      So 


208 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHA1>.    XIV 


Nature  hides  waste  and  forgets  pain.  Near  to  this 
village  is  Crown  Hill,  where  the  crown  of  England 
was  taken  from  a  hawthorn  bush,  whereon  it  had  been 
cast,  in  the  frenzied  confusion  of  defeat,  after  the  battle 
of  Bosworth  was  over  and  the  star  of  King  Richard  had 
been  quenched  in  death.  Crown  Hill  is  a  green  meadow 
now,  without  distinguishing  feature,  except  that  two 
large  trees,  each  having  a  double  trunk,  are  growing  in 
the  middle  of  it.  Not  distant  from  this  historic  spot 
stands  Higham-on-the-Hill,  where  there  is  a  fine  church, 
remarkable  for  its  Norman  tower.  From  this  village 
the  view  is  magnificent,  — -  embracing  all  that  section  of 
Leicestershire  which  is  thus  haunted  with  memories  of 
King  Richard  and  of  the  carnage  that  marked  the  final 
conflict  of  the  white  and  red  roses. 


sttmmaiinmeuMwimimaiK^imMisaimaimt 


CHAPTER   XV 


THE    HOME    OF    DR.    JOHNSON 


ICHFIELD,  Staffordshire,  July  31,  1890. 
—  To  a  man  of  letters  there  is  no  name  in 
the  long  annals  of  English  literature  more 
interesting  and  significant  than  the  name 
of  Samuel  Johnson.  It  has  been  truly 
said  that  no  other  man  was  ever  subjected  to  such  a 
light  as  Boswell  threw  upon  Johnson,  and  that  few  other 
men  could  have  endured  it  so  well.  He  was  in  many 
ways  noble,  but  of  all  men  of  letters  he  is  especially 
noble  as  the  champion  of  literature.  He  vindicated  the 
profession  of  letters.  He  lived  by  his  pen,  and  he 
taught  the  great  world,  once  for  all,  that  it  is  honour- 
able so  to  live.  That  lesson  was  needed  in  the  England 
of  his  period;  and  from  that  period  onward  the  literary 
vocation  has  steadily  been  held  in  higher  esteem  than  it 
enjoyed  up  to  that  time.  The  reader  will  not  be  sur- 
prised that  one  of  the  humblest  of  his  followers  should 
linger  for  a  while  in  the  ancient  town  that  is  glorified  by 
association  with  his  illustrious  name,  or  should  write  a 
word  of  fealty  and  homage  in  the  birthplace  of  Dr. 
Johnson. 

o  209 


2IO 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


Lichfield  is  a  cluster  of  rather  dingy  streets  and  of 
red-brick  and  stucco  buildings,  lying  in  a  vale,  a  little 

northward      from 
Birmingham,  diver- 
sified by  a  couple 
of    artificial    lakes 
and     glorified     by 
one    of    the    love- 
liest   churches    in 
Europe.      Without 
its  church  the  town 
would  be  nothing. 
Lichfield     cathedral,    although 
an   ancient  structure,  —  dating 
back,  indeed,  to  the  early  part 
of   the  twelfth    century,  —  has 
been    so    sorely   battered,    and 
so  considerably  "restored,"  that 
it  presents  the  aspect  of  a  build- 
ing almost  modern.      The  de- 
notements   of    antiquity,    how- 
ever, are  not  entirely  absent 
from  it,  and  it  is  not  less 
venerable    than    majestic. 
No  one  of  the  cathedrals 
of    England     presents    a 
more  beautiful  front.    The 
multitudinous     statues    of 
saints  and  kings  that  are 


Dr.  Johttson. 


upon  it  create  an  impression  of  royal  opulence.  The 
carving  upon  the  recesses  of  the  great  doorways 
on  the   north   and  west  is   of  astonishing  variety   and 


XV 


THE   HOME   OF   DR.    JOHNSON 


211 


loveliness.  The  massive  doors  of  dark  oak,  fretted  with 
ironwork  of  rare  delicacy,  are  impressive  and  are  excep- 
tionally suitable  for  such  an  edifice.  Seven  of  the  large 
gothic  windows  in  the  chancel  are  filled  with  genuine 
old  glass,  —  not,  indeed,  the  glass  they  originally  con- 
tained, for  that  was  smashed  by  the  Puritan  fanatics,  but 
a  great  quantity  [no  less        1  \       than    at   least 

three  hundred  and  forty        [,  |       pieces,   each 


Lichfield  Cathedral—  West  Front. 


about  twenty-two  inches  square],  made  in  Germany,  in 
the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  when  the  art 
of  staining  glass  was  at  its  summit  of  skill.  This 
trea,sure  was  given  to  the  cathedral  by  a  liberal  friend. 
Sir  Brooke  Boothby,  who  had  obtained  it  by  purchase, 
in    1802,  from  the   dissolved   Abbey  of   Herckenrode. 


-V 


212  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

No  such  colour  as  that  old  glass  presents  can  be  seen 
in  the  glass  that  is  manufactured  now.  It  is  imitated 
indeed,  but  it  does  not  last.  The  subjects  portrayed 
in  those  sumptuous  windows  are  mostly  scriptural,  but 
the  centre  window  on  the  north  side  of  the  chancel 
is  devoted  to  portraits  of  noblemen,  one  of  them  being 
Errard  de  la  Marck,  who  was  enthroned  Bishop  of  Liege 
in  1505,  and  who,  toward  the  end  of  his  stormy  life, 
adopted  the  old  Roman  motto,  comprehensive  and 
final,  which,  a  little  garbled,  appears  in  the  glass  be- 
neath his  heraldic  arms  : 

"  Decipimus  votis  ;   et  tempore  fallimur  ; 
Et  Mors  deridet  curas  ;  anxia  vita  niliil." 

The  father  of  the  illustrious  Joseph  Addison  was 
Dean  of  Lichfield  from  1688  to  1703,  and  his  remains 
are  buried  in  the  ground,  near  the  west  door  of  the 
church.  The  stately  Latin  epitaph  was  written  by  his 
son.  This  and  several  other  epitaphs  here  attract  the  in- 
terested attention  of  literary  students.  A  tablet  on  the 
north  wall,  in  the  porch,  commemorates  the  courage  and 
sagacity  of  Lady  Mary  Wortley  Montagu,  who  intro- 
duced into  England  the  practice  of  inoculation  for  the 
small-pox.  Anna  Seward,  the  poet,  who  died  in  1809, 
aged  sixty-six,  and  who  was  one  of  the  friends  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  was  buried  and  is  commemorated  here,  and 
the  fact  that  she  placed  a  tablet  here,  in  memory  of  her 
father,  is  celebrated  in  sixteen  eloquent  and  felicitous 
lines  by  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  father  was  a  canon  of 
Lichfield,  and  died  in  1790.  The  reader  of  Boswell 
will  not  fail  to  remark  the  epitaph  on  Gilbert  Walmes- 
ley,  once  registrar  of  the  ecclesiastical  court  of  Lichfield, 


XV 


THE   HOME   OF   DR.   JOHNSON 


213 


and  one  of  Dr.  Johnson's  especial  friends.  Of  Chappel 
Woodhouse  it  is  significantly  said,  upon  his  memorial 
stone,  that  he  was  "  lamented  most  by  those  who  knew 
him  best."  Here  the  pilgrim  sees  two  of  the  best 
works  of  Sir  Francis  Chantrey,  —  one  called  The  Sleep- 
ing Children,  erected 
in  18 1 7,  in  memory  of 
two  young  daughters 
of  the  Rev.  William 
Robinson ;  the  other 
a  kneeling  figure  of 
Bishop  Ryder,  who 
died  in  1836.  The  for- 
mer was  one  of  the 
earliest  triumphs  of 
Chantrey,  —  an  exqui- 
site semblance  of  inno- 
cence and  heavenly 
purity,^ — and  the  lat- 
ter was  his  last.  Near 
by  is  placed  one  of  the 
most  sumptuous  mon- 
uments in  England,  a 
recumbent  statue,  done 
by  the  master-hand  of 
Watts,  the  painter,  representing  Bishop  Lonsdale,  who 
died  in  1867.  This  figure,  in  which  the  modelling  is  very 
beautiful  and  expressive,  rests  upon  a  bed  of  marble  and 
alabaster.     In  Chantrey's  statue  of  Bishop  Ryder,  which 

^  Chantrey  had  seen  the  beautiful  sculpture  of  little  Penelope  Boothby, 
in  Ashbourne  church,  Derbyshire,  made  by  Thomas  Banks,  and  he  may 
have  been  inspired  by  that  spectacle. 


Lichfield  Cathedral —  IlVi/  Front,    Central 
Doonoay. 


214  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

seems  no  effigy  but  indeed  the  living  man,  there  is 
marvellous  perfection  of  drapery,  —  the  marble  having 
the  effect  of  flowing  silk.  Here  also,  in  the  south 
transept,  is  the  urn  of  the  Gastrells,  formerly  of  Strat- 
ford-upon-Avon, to  whom  was  due  the  destruction 
[1759]  of  the  house  of  New  Place  in  which  Shake- 
speare died.  No  mention  of  the  Rev.  Gastrell  occurs 
in  the  epitaph,  but  copious  eulogium  is  lavished  on 
his  widow,  both  in  verse  and  prose,  and  she  must  in- 
deed have  been  a  good  woman,  if  the  line  is  true  which 
describes  her  as  "A  friend  to  want  when  each  false 
friend  withdrew."  Her  chief  title  to  remembrance, 
however,  like  that  of  her  husband,  is  an  unhallowed 
association  with  one  of  the  most  sacred  of  literary 
shrines.  In  1776  Johnson,  accompanied  by  Boswell, 
visited  Lichfield,  and  Boswell  records  that  they  dined 
with  Mrs.  Gastrell  and  her  sister  Mrs.  Aston.  The 
Rev.  Gastrell  was  then  dead.  "  I  was  not  in- 
formed till  afterward,"  says  Boswell,  "that  Mrs.  Gas- 
trell's  husband  was  the  clergyman  who,  while  he  lived 
at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  with  Gothic  barbarity  cut  down 
Shakespeare's  mulberry-tree,  and  as  Dr.  Johnson  told 
me,  did  it  to  vex  his  neighbours.  His  lady,  I  have 
reason  to  believe,  on  the  same  authority,  participated 
in  the  guilt  of  what  the  enthusiasts  of  our  immortal 
bard  deem  almost  a  species  of  sacrilege."  The  de- 
struction of  the  house  followed  close  upon  that  of  the 
tree,  and  to  both  their  deaths  the  lady  was  doubtless 
accessory. 

Upon  the  ledge  of  a  casement  on  the  east  side  of  the 
chancel,  separated  by  the  central  lancet  of  a  threefold 
window,  stand  the  marble  busts  of  Samuel  Johnson  and 


XV  THE   HOME   OF   DR.   JOHNSON  215 

David  Garrick.  Side  by  side  they  went  through  life ; 
side  by  side  their  ashes  repose  in  the  great  abbey  at 
Westminster ;  and  side  by  side  they  are  commemorated 
here.  Both  the  busts  were  made  by  Westmacott,  and 
obviously  each  is  a  portrait.  The  head  of  Johnson 
appears  without  his  customary  wig.  The  colossal  indi- 
viduality of  the  man  plainly  declares  itself,  in  form  and 
pose,  in  every  line  of  the  eloquent  face,  and  in  the 
superb  dignity  of  the  ligure  and  the  action.  This  work 
was  based  on  a  cast  taken  after  death,  and  this  undoubt- 
edly is  Johnson's  self.  The  head  is  massive  yet  grace- 
ful, denoting  a  compact  brain  and  great  natural 
refinement  of  intellect.  The  brow  is  indicative  of 
uncommon  sweetness.  The  eyes  are  finely  shaped. 
The  nose  is  prominent,  long,  and  slightly  aquiline,  with 
wide  and  sensitive  nostrils.  The  mouth  is  large,  and 
the  lips  are  slightly  parted,  as  if  in  speech.  Prodigious 
perceptive  faculties  are  shown  in  the  sculpture  of  the 
forehead,  —  a  feature  that  is  characteristic,  in  even  a 
greater  degree,  of  the  bust  of  Garrick.  The  total 
expression  of  the  countenance  is  benignant,  yet  troubled 
and  rueful.  It  is  a  thoughtful  and  venerable  face,  and 
yet  it  is  the  passionate  face  of  a  man  who  has  passed 
through  many  storms  of  self-conflict  and  been  much 
ravaged  by  spiritual  pain.  The  face  of  Garrick,  on  the 
contrary,  is  eager,  animated,  triumphant,  happy,  show- 
ing a  nature  of  absolute  simplicity,  a  sanguine  tempera- 
ment, and  a  mind  that  tempests  may  have  ruffled  but 
never  convulsed.  Garrick  kept  his  "  storm  and  stress  " 
for  his  tragic  performances ;  there  was  no  particle  of  it 
in  his  personal  experience.  It  was  good  to  see  those 
old  friends  thus  associated  in  the  beautiful  church  that 


2l6  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

they  knew  and  loved  in  the  sweet  days  when  their 
friendship  had  just  begun  and  their  labours  and  their 
honours  were  all  before  them.  I  placed  myself  where, 
during  the  service,  I  could  look  upon  both  the  busts  at 
once ;  and  presently,  in  the  deathlike  silence,  after  the 
last  response  of  evensong  had  died  away,  I  could  well 
believe  that  those  familiar  figures  were  kneeling  beside 
me,  as  so  often  they  must  have  knelt  beneath  this  glori- 
ous and  venerable  roof  :  and  for  one  worshipper  the 
beams  of  the  westering  sun,  that  made  a  solemn  splen- 
dour through  the  church,  illumined  visions  no  mortal 
eyes  could  see. 

Beneath  the  bust  of  Johnson,  upon  a  stone  slab 
affixed  to  the  wall,  appears  this  inscription  : 

The  friends  of  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D.,  a  native  of  Lich- 
field, erected  this  monument  as  a  tribute  of  respect  to  the  memory 
of  a  man  of  extensive  learning,  a  distinguished  moral  writer  and  a 
sincere  Christian.  He  died  the  13th  of  December,  1784,  aged  75 
years. 

A  similar  stone  beneath  the  bust  of  Garrick  is  in- 
scribed as  follows : 

Eva  Maria,  relict  of  DAVID  GARRICK,  Esq.,  caused  this  monu- 
ment to  be  erected  to  the  memory  of  her  beloved  husband,  who 
died  the  20th  of  January  1779,  aged  63  years.  He  had  not  only  the 
amiable  qualities  of  private  life,  but  such  astonishing  dramatick 
talents  as  too  well  verified  the  observation  of  his  friend :  ''  His 
death  eclipsed  the  gayety  of  nations  and  impoverished  the  publick 
stock  of  harmless  pleasure." 

This  "  observation "  is  the  well-known  eulogium  of 
Johnson,  who,  however  much  he  may  have  growled 
about  Garrick,  always  loved  him  and  deeply  mourned 
for  him.     These  memorials  of  an  author  and  an  actor 


XV 


THE    HOME   OF    DR.    lOIINSON 


217 


are  not  rendered  the  more  impressive  by  being  sur- 
mounted, as  at  present  they  are,  in  Lichfield  cathedral, 
with  old  battle-flags,  —  commemorative  souvenirs  of  the 
80th  Regiment,  Staffordshire  volunteers,  —  honourable 

and  interesting  relics  in  their 
place,  but  inappropriate  to  the  ef- 
figies of  Johnson  and  Garrick. 


House  in  which  Juhiisoii  luas  born. 


The  house  in  which  Johnson  was  born  stands  at  the 
corner  of  Market  street  and  Breadmarket  street,  facing 
the  little  market-place  of  Lichfield.  It  is  an  antiquated 
building,  three  stories  in  height,  having  a  long,  peaked 
roof.  The  lower  story  is  recessed,  so  that  the  entrance 
is  sheltered  by  a  pent.     Its  two  doors,  —  for  the  struct- 


2l8  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  CHAP. 

ure  now  consists  of  two  tenements,  —  are  approached 
by  low  stone  steps,  guarded  by  an  iron  rail.  There  are 
ten  windows,  five  in  each  row,  in  the  front  of  the  upper 
stories.  The  pent-roof  is  supported  by  three  sturdy 
pillars.  The  house  has  a  front  of  stucco.  A  bill  in  one 
of  the  lower  windows  certifies  that  now  [1890],  this 
house  is  "To  Let."  Here  old  Michael  Johnson  kept 
his  bookshop,  in  the  days  of  good  Queen  Anne,  and 
from  this  door  young  Samuel  Johnson  went  forth  to 
his  school  and  his  play.  The  whole  various,  pathetic, 
impressive  story  of  his  long,  laborious,  sturdy,  benefi- 
cent life  drifts  through  your  mind  as  you  stand  at  that 
threshold  and  conjure  up  the  pictures  of  the  past. 
Opposite  to  the  house,  and  facing  it,  is  the  statue  of 
Johnson,  presented  to  Lichfield  in  1838  by  James 
Thomas  Law,  then  Chancellor  of  the  diocese.  On  the 
sides  of  its  massive  pedestal  are  sculptures,  showing 
first  the  boy,  borne  on  his  father's  shoulders,  listening 
to  the  preaching  of  Dr.  Sacheverell ;  then  the  youth, 
victorious  in  school,  carried  aloft  in  triumph  by  his 
admiring  comrades ;  and,  finally,  the  renowned  scholar 
and  author,  in  the  meridian  of  his  greatness,  standing 
bareheaded  in  the  market-place  of  Uttoxeter,  doing  pen- 
ance for  his  undutiful  refusal,  when  a  lad,  to  relieve  his 
weary,  infirm  father,  in  the  work  of  tending  the  book- 
stall at  that  place.  Every  one  knows  that  touching 
story,  and  no  one  who  thinks  of  it  when  standing  here 
will  gaze  with  any  feeling  but  that  of  reverence,  com- 
mingled with  the  wish  to  lead  a  true  and  simple  life, 
upon  the  noble,  thoughtful  face  and  figure  of  the  great 
moralist,  who  now  seems  to  look  down  with  benediction 
upon  the  scenes  of  his  innocent  and  happy  youth.     The 


■  f 


XV  THE   HOME   OF  DR.   JOHNSON  219 

Statue,  which  is  in  striking  contrast  with  the  humble 
birthplace,  points  the  expressive  moral  of  a  splendid 
career.  No  tablet  has  yet  been  placed  on  the  house  in 
which  Johnson  was  born.  Perhaps  it  is  not  needed. 
Yet  surely  this  place,  if  any  place  on  earth,  ought  to  be 
preserved  and  protected  as  a  literary  shrine.^  Johnson 
was  not  a  great  creative  poet ;  neither  a  Shakespeare,  a 
Dryden,  a  Byron,  nor  a  Tennyson ;  but  he  was  one  of 
the  most  massive  and  majestic  characters  in  English 
literature.  A  superb  example  of  self-conquest  and 
moral  supremacy,  a  mine  of  extensive  and  diversified 
learning,  an  intellect  lemarkable  for  deep  penetration 
and  broad  and  generally  sure  grasp  of  the  greatest  sub- 
jects, he  exerted,  as  few  men  have  ever  exerted,  the 
original,  elemental  force  of  genius ;  and  his  immortal 
legacy  to  his  fellow-men  was  an  abiding  influence  for 
good.  The  world  is  better  and  happier  because  of  him, 
and  because  of  the  many  earnest  characters  and  honest 
lives  that  his  example  has  inspired ;  and  this  cradle  of 
greatness  ought  to  be  saved  and  marked  for  every  suc- 
ceeding generation  as  long  as  time  endures. 

One  of  the  interesting  features  of  Lichfield  is  an 
inscription  that  vividly  recalls  the  ancient  strife  of 
Roundhead  and  Cavalier,  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago. 
This  is  found  upon  a  stone  scutcheon,  set  in  the  wall 
over  the  door  of  the  house  that  is  No.  24  Dam  street, 
and  these  are  its  words:  "March  2d,  1643,  Lord 
Brooke,  a  General  of  the  Parliament  Forces  preparing 
to  Besiege  the  Close  of  Lichfield,  then  garrisoned  For 

1  1896.  The  building  is,  if  possible,  to  be  made  a  museum  of  relics  of 
Johnson.  It  is  now  a  lodging-house.  Its  exterior  has  recently  been  re- 
paired.    Johnson  is  the  name  of  its  present  owner. 


The  Spii-es  of  Lichfield. 


CHAi>.  XV  THE   HOME  OF   DR.   JOHNSON  221 

King  Charles  the  First,  Received  his  deathwound  on 
the  spot  Beneath  this  Inscription,  By  a  shot  in  the 
forehead  from  Mr.  Dyott,  a  gentleman  who  had  placed 
himself  on  the  Battlements  of  the  great  steeple,  to 
annoy  the  Besiegers."  One  of  them  he  must  have 
"annoyed"  seriously.  It  was  "a  long  shot.  Sir  Lu- 
cius," for,  standing  on  the  place  of  that  catastrophe 
and  looking  up  to  "  the  battlements  of  the  great 
steeple,"  it  seemed  to  have  covered  a  distance  of  nearly 
four  hundred  feet.  Other  relics  of  those  Roundhead 
wars  were  shown  in  the  cathedral,  in  an  ancient  room 
now  used  for  the  bishop's  consistory  court,  —  these 
being  two  cannon-balls  (fourteen-pounders),  and  the 
ragged  and  dusty  fragments  of  a  shell,  that  were  dug 
out  of  the  ground  near  the  church  a  few  years  ago. 
Many  of  these  practical  tokens  of  Puritan  zeal  have 
been  discovered.  Lichfield  cathedral  close,  in  the  time 
of  Bishop  Walter  de  Langton,  who  died  in  1321,  was 
surrounded  with  a  wall  and  fosse,  and  thereafter,  when- 
ever the  wars  came,  it  was  used  as  a  fortification.  In 
the  Stuart  times  it  was  often  besieged.  Sir  John  Gell 
succeeded  Lord  Brooke,  when  the  latter  had  been  shot 
by  Mr.  Dyott, — who  is  said  to  have  been  "deaf  and 
dumb,"  but  who  certainly  was  not  blind.  The  close 
was  surrendered  on  March  5,  1643,  and  thereupon  the 
Parliamentary  victors,  according  to  their  ruthless  and 
brutal  custom,  straightway  ravaged  the  church,  tearing 
the  brasses  from  the  tombs,  breaking  the  effigies,  and 
utterly  despoiling  beauty  which  it  had  taken  genera- 
tions of  pious  zeal  and  loving  devotion  to  create.  The 
great  spire  was  battered  down  by  those  vandals,  and 
in    falling    it    wrecked   the  chapter-house.     The  noble 


222  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xv 

church,  indeed,  was  made  a  ruin,  and  so  it  remained  till 
1 66 1,  when  its  munificent  benefactor,  Bishop  Hackett, 
began  its  restoration,  now  happily  almost  complete. 
Prince  Rupert  captured  Lichfield  close,  for  the  king,  in 
April,  1643,  and  General  Lothian  recovered  it  for  the 
Parliament,  in  the  summer  of  1646,  after  which  time 
it  was  completely  dismantled.  Charles  the  First  came 
to  this  place  after  the  fatal  battle  of  Naseby,  and  sad 
enough  that  picturesque,  vacillating,  shortsighted,  bea- 
tific aristocrat  must  have  been,  gazing  over  the  green 
fields  of  Lichfield,  to  know,  —  as  surely  even  he  must 
then  have  known,  —  that  his  cause  was  doomed,  if  not 
entirely  lost. 

It  will  not  take  you  long  to  traverse  Lichfield,  and 
you  may  ramble  all  around  it  through  little  green  lanes 
between  hedgerows.  This  you  will  do  if  you  are  wise, 
for  the  walk,  especially  at  evening,  is  peaceful  and 
lovely.  The  wanderer  never  gets  far  away  from  the 
cathedral.  Those  three  superb  spires  steadily  dominate 
the  scene,  and  each  new  view  of  them  seems  fairer  than 
the  last.  All  around  this  little  city  the  fields  are 
richly  green,  and  many  trees  diversify  the  prospect. 
Pausing  to  rest  awhile  in  the  mouldering  graveyard  of 
old  St.  Chad's,  I  saw  the  rooks  flocking  homeward  to 
the  great  tree-tops  not  far  away,  and  heard  their  many 
querulous,  sagacious,  humorous  croakings,  while  over 
the  distance,  borne  upon  the  mild  and  fragrant  evening 
breeze,  floated  the  solemn  note  of  a  warning  bell  from 
the  minster  tower,  as  the  shadows  deepened  and  the 
night  came  down.  Scenes  like  this  sink  deep  into  the 
heart,  and  memory  keeps  them  forever. 


CHAPTER    XVI 

FROM    LONDON    TO    EDINBURGH 

DINBURGH,  September  9,  1889.  — Scot- 
land again,  and  never  more  beautiful 
than  now !  The  harvest  moon  is  shining 
upon  the  grim  old  castle,  and  the  bag- 
pipes are  playing  under  my  windows 
to-night.  It  has  been  a  lovely  day.  The  train  rolled 
out  of  King's  Cross,  London,  at  ten  this  morning,  and 
it  rolled  into  Waverley,  Edinburgh,  about  seven  to-night. 
The  trip  by  the  Great  Northern  railway  is  one  of  the 
most  interesting  journeys  that  can  be  made  in  England. 
At  first  indeed  the  scenery  is  not  striking ;  but  even  at 
first  you  are  whirled  past  spots  of  exceptional  historic 
and  literary  interest,  —  among  them  the  battlefield  of 
Barnet,  the  ancient  and  glorious  abbey  of  St.  Albans, 
and  the  old  church  and  graveyard  of  Hornsey  where 
Thomas  Moore  buried  his  little  daughter  Barbara,  and 
where  the  venerable  poet  Samuel  Rogers  sleeps  the 
last  sleep.  Soon  these  are  gone,  and  presently,  dash- 
ing through    a   flat  country,  you    get   a  clear   view  of 

223 


/^ 


'-3-^7^- 


224  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  chai'. 

Peterborough  cathedral,  massive,  dark,  and  splendid, 
with  its  graceful  cone-shaped  pinnacles,  its  vast  square 
central  tower,  and  the  three  great  pointed  and  recessed 
arches  that  adorn  its  west  front.  That  church  contains 
the  dust  of  Queen  Catherine,  the  Spanish  wife  of  Henry 
the  Eighth,  who  died  at  Kimbolton  Castle,  Huntingdon- 
shire, in  1535  ;  and  there,  in  1587,  the  remains  of  Mary 
Stuart  were  first  buried,  —  resting  there  a  long  time  be- 
fore her  son,  James  the  First,  conveyed  them  to  West- 
minster Abbey.  Both  those  queens  were  buried  by  the 
same  gravedigger,  —  that  famous  sexton,  old  Scarlett, 
whose  portrait  is  in  the  cathedral,  and  who  died  July  2, 
1 59 1,  aged  ninety-eight. 

The  country  is  so  level  that  the  receding  tower  of 
Peterborough  remains  for  a  long  time  in  sight,  but  soon, 
—  as  the  train  speeds  through  pastures  of  clover  and 
through  fields  of  green  and  red  and  yellow  herbage, 
divided  by  glimmering  hedges  and  diversified  with  red- 
roofed  villages  and  gray  church  towers,  — the  land  grows 
hilly,  and  long  white  roads  are  visible,  stretching  away 
like  bands  of  silver  over  the  lonely  hill-tops.  Figures 
of  gleaners  are  seen,  now  and  then,  scattered  through 
fields  whence  the  harvest  has  lately  been  gathered. 
Sheep  are  feeding  in  the  pastures,  and  cattle  are  couched 
under  fringes  of  wood.  The  bright  emerald  of  the  sod 
sparkles  with  the  golden  yellow  of  the  colt's-foot,  and 
sometimes  the  scarlet  waves  of  the  poppy  come  tum- 
bling into  the  plain,  like  a  cataract  of  fire.  Windmills 
spread  their  whirling  sails  upon  the  summits  round 
about,  and  over  the  nestling  ivy-clad  cottages  and  over 
the  stately  trees  there  are  great  flights  of  rooks.  A 
gray  sky  broods  above,  faintly  suffused  with  sunshine. 


PETERBOROUGH    CATHEDRAL 


!    1-, 


224  CRAY  DAV^^   .wTf)  r„')T,n 

Peterborough  coih.edral,    ma  lark,   and    splendid, 

with  its  graceful  c(»ne-shaped  pinnacles,  its  vast  square 
centra]  tower,  and  the  three  great  pointed  and  recessed 
arc:  front.     That  church  contains 

Spanish  wife  of  Henry 
Castle,  Huntingdoj: 
:;,,;;,  r.ains  of  Marv 

.' •-  ic  first  uuii'.-a, j^,-Mi-u^  I, IV  .>    .1  long  time  bc- 

m,  James  the  First,  conveyed  them  to  West 

•i^y.      Both  those  queens  were  buried  by  the 

,,  igger, — that  famous  sexton,  old   Scarlett. 

whose  portrait  is  in  the  cathedral,  and  who  died  July  2. 

159T,  aged  ninety-ey^^3^^^3  wouo^ioajiHTss 

country  is  1   that  the  receding  tow*; 

.,  but  soon, 
lures  of  clover  and 
.1  and  red   and  y(  ' 

vu\;<i'.t.'  I.')    ._!iiiia'icrmg   ■     ' 
roofed  villages  ai'-  i.c  lana  grows. 

hilly,  and  ] ..jc  vibiuic,  bLretching  away 

like  band.s  .-;  .u>>  ,  .-.ci  the  lonely  hill-tops.  Figures 
of  gleaners  are  seen,  now  and  then,  scattered  through 
fields  whence  the  harvest  has  lately, been  gathered. 
Sheep  are  feeding  in  the  pastures,  and  cattle  are  couched 
under  fringes  of  wood.  The  bright  emerald  oi  the  sod 
sparkles  with  the  golden  yellow  of  t;  s-foot,  and 

sometimes  the  scarlet  waves  of  th  y  come  tum- 

bling into  the  plain,' like  a  catar  .'.'•       uills 

spread   their   whirling    sails  summits    round 

about,  and  over  the  nestlir  :  cottages  and  over 

the  stately  trees  then-  :i   flights  of  rooks.     A 

.i;ray  sky  broods  above,  iu;:;Liy  suffused  with  sunshine, 


XVI  FROM    LONDON   TO    EDINliUKGII  225 

but  there  is  no  glare  and  no  heat,  and  often  the  wind 
is  laden  with  a  fragrance  of  wildfiowers  and  of  hay. 
It  is  noon  at  Grantham,  where  there  is  just  time 
enough  to  see  that  this  is  a  flourishing  city  of  red- 
brick houses  and  fine  spacious  streets,  with  a  lofty, 
spired  church,  and  far  away  eastward  a  high  line  of 
hills.     Historic  Newark  is  presently  reached  and  passed, 

—  a  busy,  contented  town,  smiling  through  the  sunshine 
and  mist,  and  as  it  fades  in  the  distance  I  remember 
that  we  are  leaving  Lincoln,  with  its  glorious  cathedral, 
to  the  southeast,  and  to  the  west  Newstead  Abbey, 
Annesley,  Southwell,  and  Hucknall-Torkard,  —  places 
memorably  associated  with  the  poet  Byron  and  dear 
to  the  heart  of  every  lover  of  poetic  literature.  At 
Markham  the  country  is  exceedingly  pretty,  with  woods 
and  hills  over  which  multitudes  of  rooks  and  starlings 
are  in  full  career,  dark,  rapid,  and  garrulous.  About 
Bawtry  the  land  is  flat,  and  flat  it  continues  to  be  until 
we  have  sped  a  considerable  way  beyond  York.  But 
in  the  meantime  we  flash  through  opulent  Doncaster, 
famed  for  manufactories  and  for  horse-races,  rosy  and 
active  amid  the  bright  green  fields.  There  are  not 
many  trees  in  this  region,  and  as  we  draw  near  Selby, 

—  a  large  red-brick  city,  upon  the  banks  of  a  broad 
river,  —  its  massive  old  church  tower  looms  conspicu- 
ous under  smoky  skies.  In  the  outskirts  of  this  town 
there  are  cosy  houses  clad  with  ivy,  in  which  the  pilgrim 
might  well  be  pleased  to  linger.  But  there  is  no  pause, 
and  in  a  little  while  magnificent  York  bursts  upon  the 
view,  stately  and  glorious,  under  a  black  sky  that  is  full 
of  driving  clouds.  The  minster  stands  out  like  a  moun- 
tain, and  the  giant  towers  rear  themselves  in   solemn 

p 


226  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

majesty,  —  the  grandest  piece  of  church  architecture  in 
England !  The  brimming  Ouse  shines  as  if  it  were  a 
stream  of  liquid  ebony.  The  meadows  around  the  city 
glow  like  living  emeralds,  while  the  harvest-fields  are 
stored  and  teeming  with  stacks  of  golden  grain.  Great 
flights  of  startled  doves  people  the  air,  —  as  white  as 
snow  under  the  sable  fleeces  of  the  driving  storm.  I 
had  seen  York  under  different  guises,  but  never  before 
under  a  sky  at  once  so  sombre  and  so  romantic. 

We  bear  toward  Thirsk  now,  leaving  behind  us, 
westward  of  our  track,  old  Ripon,  in  the  distance, 
memorable  for  many  associations,  —  especially  the 
contiguity  of  that  loveliest  of  ecclesiastical  ruins,  Foun- 
tains Abbey,  —  and  cherished  in  theatrical  annals  as 
the  place  of  the  death  and  burial  of  the  distinguished 
founder  of  the  Jefferson  family  of  actors.^  Bleak 
Haworth  is  not  far  distant,  and  remembrance  of  it 
prompts  many  sympathetic  thoughts  of  the  strange 
genius  of  Charlotte  Bronte.  Darlington  is  the  next 
important  place,  a  town  of  manufacture,  conspicuous  for 
its  tall,  smoking  chimneys  and  evidently  prosperous. 
This  is  the  land  of  stone  walls  and  stone  cottages,  — 
the  grim  precinct  of  Durham.  The  country  is  culti- 
vated, but  rougher  than  the  Midlands,  and  the  essen- 
tially diversified  character  of  this  small  island  is  once 
again  impressed  upon  your  mind.  All  through  this 
region  there  are  little  white-walled  houses  with  red 
roofs.  At  Ferry  Hill  the  scenery  changes  again  and 
becomes    American,  —  a   mass    of    rocky    gorges    and 

1  Thomas  Jefferson,  1728-1807,  was  a  contemporary  and  friend  of  Gar- 
rick,  and  a  member  of  his  company,  at  various  times,  at  Drury  Lane.  He 
was  the  great-grandfather  of  Joseph  Jefferson,  famous  in  Rip  Van  Winkle. 


XVI  FROM    LONDON   TO   EDINBURGH  22/ 

densely  wooded  ravines.  All  trace  of  storm  has  van- 
ished by  this  time,  and  when,  after  a  brief  interval 
of  eager  expectation,  the  noble  towers  of  Durham 
cathedral  sweep  into  the  prospect,  that  superb  monu- 
ment of  ancient  devotion,  together  with  all  the  dark 
gray  shapes  of  that  pictorial  city, — so  magnificently 
placed,  in  an  abrupt  precipitous  gorge,  on  both  sides 
of  the  brimming  Weir,  —  are  seen  under  a  sky  of 
the  softest  Italian  blue,  dappled  with  white  clouds  of 
drifting  fleece.  Durham  is  all  too  quickly  passed,  — 
fading  away  in  a  landscape  sweetly  mellowed  by  a 
faint  blue  mist.  Then  stately  rural  mansions  appear, 
half  hidden  among  great  trees.  Wreaths  of  smoke  curl 
upward  from  scattered  dwellings  all  around  the  circle 
of  the  hills.  Each  distant  summit  is  seen  to  be  crowned 
with  a  tower  or  a  town.  A  fine  castle  springs  into  view 
just  before  Birtley  glances  by,  and  we  see  that  this  is  a 
place  of  woodlands,  piquant  with  a  little  of  the  rough- 
ness of  unsophisticated  nature.  But  the  scene  changes 
suddenly,  as  in  a  theatre,  and  almost  in  a  moment  the 
broad  and  teeming  Tyne  blazes  beneath  the  scorching 
summer  sun,  and  the  gray  houses  of  Gateshead  and 
Newcastle  fill  the  picture  with  life  and  motion.  The 
waves  glance  and  sparkle,  —  a  wide  plain  of  shimmer- 
ing silver.  The  stream  is  alive  with  shipping.  There 
is  movement  everywhere,  and  smoke  and  industry  and 
traffic,  —  and  doubtless  noise,  though  we  are  on  a  height 
and  cannot  hear  it.  A  busier  scene  could  not  be  found 
in  all  this  land,  nor  one  more  strikingly  representative 
of  the  industrial  character  and  interests  of  England. 

After  leaving  Newcastle  we  glide  past  a  gentle,  wind- 
ing ravine,  thickly  wooded  on  both  its  sides,  with  a  bright 


228 


GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


Stream  glancing  in  its  depth.  The  meadows  all  aromid 
are  green,  fresh,  and  smiling,  and  soon  our  road  skirts 
beautiful  Morpeth,  bestriding  a  dark  and  lovely  river 
and  crouched  in  a  bosky  dell.  At  Widdrington  the  land 
shelves  downward,  the  trees  become  sparse,  and  you 
catch  a  faint  glimpse  of  the  sea,  —  the  broad  blue  wil- 
derness of  the  Northern  Ocean.  From  this  point 
onward  the  panorama  is  one  of  perfect  and  unbroken 


Berwick  Castle. 

loveliness.  Around  you  are  spacious  meadows  of  fern, 
diversified  with  clumps  of  fir-trees,  and  the  sweet  wind 
that  blows  upon  your  face  seems  glad  and  buoyant  with 
its  exultant  vitality.  At  Warkworth  Castle,  once  the 
home  of  the  noble  Hotspur,  the  ocean  view  is  especially 
magnificent,  —  the  brown  and  red  sails  of  the  ships  and 
various  craft  descried  at  sea  contributing  to  the  prospect 
a  lovely  element  of  picturesque  character.  Alnwick, 
with  its  storied  associations  of  "  the  Percy  out  of  Nor- 


XVI  FROM   LONDON   TO   EDINBURGH  229 

thumberland,"  is  left  to  the  westward,  while  on  the  east 
the  romantic  village  of  Alnmouth  woos  the  traveller 
with  an  irresistible  charm.  No  one  who  has  once  seen 
that  exquisite  place  can  ever  be  content  without  seeing 
it  again,  —  and  yet  there  is  no  greater  wisdom  in  the 
conduct  of  life  than  to  avoid  forever  a  second  sight  of 
any  spot  where  you  have  once  been  happy.  This  vil- 
lage, with  its  little  lighthouse  and  graceful  steeple,  is 
built  upon  a  promontory  in  the  sea,  and  is  approached 
over  the  sands  by  a  long,  isolated  road  across  a  bridge 
of  four  fine  arches.  All  the  country-side  in  this  region 
is  rich.  At  Long  Houghton  a  grand  church  uprears 
its  vast  square  tower,  lonely  and  solemn  in  its  place  of 
graves.  Royal  Berwick  comiCS  next,  stately  and  serene 
upon  its  ocean  crag,  with  the  white-crested  waves  curl- 
ing on  its  beach  and  the  glad  waters  of  the  Tweed  kiss- 
ing the  fringes  of  its  sovereign  mantle,  as  they  rush  into 
the  sea.  The  sun  is  sinking  now,  and  over  the  many- 
coloured  meadows,  red  and  brown  and  golden  and  green, 
the  long,  thin  shadows  of  the  trees  slope  eastward  and 
softly  .hint  the  death  of  day.  The  sweet  breeze  of  even- 
ing stirs  the  long  grasses,  and  on  many  a  gray  stone 
house  shakes  the  late  pink  and  yellow  roses  and  makes 
the  ivy  tremble.  It  is  Scotland  now,  and  as  we  pass 
through  the  storied  Border  we  keep  the  ocean  almost 
constantly  in  view,  —  losing  it  for  a  little  while  at  Dun- 
bar, but  finding  it  again  at  Drem,  —  till,  past  the  battle- 
field of  Prestonpans,  and  past  the  quaint  villages  of 
Cockenzie  and  Musselburgh  and  the  villas  of  Portobello, 
we  come  slowly  to  a  pause  in  the  shadow  of  Arthur's 
Seat,  where  the  great  lion  crouches  over  the  glorious 
city  of  Edinburgh. 


CHAPTER   XVII 


INTO    THE    HIGHLANDS 


OCH  AWE,  September  14,  1889.  —  Under 
a  soft  gray  sky  and  through  fields  that  still 
are  slumbering  in  the  early  morning  mist, 
the  train  rolls  out  of  Edinburgh,  bound  for 
the  north.  The  wind  blows  gently  ;  the 
air  is  cool ;  strips  of  thin,  fleecy  cloud  are  driving  over 
the  distant  hill-tops,  and  the  birds  are  flying  low.  The 
track  is  by  Queensferry,  and  in  that  region  many  little 
low  stone  cottages  are  seen,  surrounded  with  simple  gar- 
dens of  flowers.  For  a  long  time  the  train  runs  through 
a  deep  ravine,  with  rocky  banks  on  either  hand,  but 
presently  it  emerges  into  pastures  where  the  sheep  are 
grazing,  and  into  fields  in  which  the  late  harvest  stands 
garnered  in  many  graceful  sheaves.  Tall  chimneys, 
vigorously  smoking,  are  visible  here  and  there  in  the 
distant  landscape.  The  fat,  black  rooks  are  taking  their 
morning  flight,  clamouring  as  they  go.  Stone  houses 
with  red  roofs  glide  into  the  picture,  and  a  graceful 
church-spire  rises  on  a  remote  hill-top.  In  all  directions 
there  are  trees,  but  they  seem  of  recent  growth,  for  no 

230 


CHAP.  XVII 


INTO  THE   HIGHLANDS 


231 


one  of  them  is  large.  Soon  the  old  cattle-market  town 
of  Falkirk  springs  up  in  the  prospect,  girt  with  fine  hills 
and  crested  with  masses  of  white  and  black  smoke  that  is 
poured  upward  from  the  many  tall  chimneys  of  its  busy 
ironworks.  The  houses  here  are  made  of  gray  stone 
and  of  red  brick,  and  many  of  them  are  large,  square 


Stu/nip'  Castle. 


buildings,  seemingly  commodious  and  opulent.  A  huge 
cemetery,  hemmed  in  with  trees  and  shrubs,  is  seen  to 
skirt  the  city.  Carron  River,  with  its  tiny  but  sounding 
cataract,  is  presently  passed,  and  at  Larbert  your  glance 
rests  lovingly  upon  "  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy 
hill."     North  of  this  place,  beyond  the  Forth,  the  coun- 


232  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  chap. 

try  in  the  distance  is  mountainous,  while  all  the  inter- 
mediate region  is  rich  with  harvest-fields.  Kinnaird  lies 
to  the  eastward,  while  northward  a  little  way  is  the  fa- 
mous field  of  Bannockburn.  Two  miles  more  and  the 
train  pauses  in  "  gray  Stirling,"  glorious  with  associa- 
tions of  historic  splendour  and  ancient  romance.  The 
Castle  of  Stirling  is  not  as  ruggedly  grand  as  that  of 
Edinburgh,  but  it  is  a  noble  architectural  pile,  and  it  is 
nobly  placed  on  a  great  crag  fronting  the  vast  moun- 
tains and  the  gloomy  heavens  of  the  north.  The  best 
view  of  it  is  obtained  looking  at  it  southward,  and  as  I 
gazed  upon  it,  under  a  cold  and  frowning  sky,  the  air 
was  populous  with  many  birds  that  circled  around  its 
cone-shaped  turrets,  and  hovered  over  the  plain  below, 
while  across  the  distant  mountain-tops,  east,  west,  and 
north,  dark  and  ragged  masses  of  mist  were  driven,  in 
wild,  tempestuous  flight.  Speeding  onward  now,  along 
the  southern  bank  of  the  Forth,  the  traveller  takes  a 
westerly  course,  past  Gargunnock  and  Kippen,  seeing 
little  villages  of  gray  stone  cottages  nestled  in  the 
hill-gaps,  distant  mountain-sides,  clad  with  furze,  dark 
patches  of  woodland,  and  moors  of  purple  heather 
commingled  with  meadows  of  brilliant  green.  The  sun 
breaks  out,  for  a  few  moments,  and  the  sombre  hue  of 
the  gray  sky  is  lightened  with  streaks  of  gold.  At 
Bucklyvie  there  is  a  second  pause,  and  then  the  course 
is  northwest,  through  banks  and  braes  of  heather,  to 
peaceful  Aberfoyle  and  the  mountains  of  Menteith. 

The  characteristic  glory  of  the  Scottish  hills  is  the 
infinite  variety  and  beauty  of  their  shapes  and  the 
loveliness  of  their  colour.  The  English  mountains  and 
lakes   in    Westmoreland    and    Cumberland    pos.sess    a 


xvil  INTO  THE   HIGHLANDS  233 

sweeter  and  softer  grace,  and  are  more  calmly  and  woo- 
ingly  beautiful ;   but  the  Scottish  mountains  and  lakes 
excel   them   in    grandeur,    majesty,    and   romance.      It 
would  be    presumption    to    undertake   to    describe   the 
solemn  austerity,  the  lofty  and  lonely  magnificence,  the 
bleak,  weird,  haunted  isolation,  and  the  fairy-like  fan- 
tasy of  this  poetic  realm ;  but  a  lover  of  it  may  declare 
his  passion  and  speak  his  sense  of  its  enthralling  and 
bewitching   charm.     Sir   Walter    Scott's    spirited    and 
trenchant   lines    on    the    emotion  of   the    patriot    sang 
themselves    over    and    over    in    my  thought,    and  were 
wholly  and  grandly  ratified,  as  the  coach  rolled  up  the 
mountain  road,  ever  climbing  height  after  height,  while 
new  and  ever  new  prospects  continually  unrolled  them- 
selves before  delighted  eyes,  on  the  familiar  but  always 
novel  journey  from  Aberfoyle  to  the  Trosachs.     That 
mountain  road,  on  its  upward  course,  and  during  most 
part  of  the  way,  winds  through  treeless  pastureland,  and 
in  every  direction,  as  your  vision  ranges,  you  behold 
other  mountains  equally  bleak,  save  for  the  bracken  and 
the  heather,  among  which  the  sheep  wander,  and  the 
grouse  nestle  in  concealment  or  whir  away  on  fright- 
ened wings.     Ben  Lomond,  wrapt  in  straggling  mists, 
was  dimly  visible  far  to  the  west ;    Ben  A'an  towered 
conspicuous  in  the  foreground ;  and  further  north  Ben 
Ledi  heaved  its  broad  mass  and  rugged  sides  to  heaven. 
Loch  Vennacher,  seen  for  a  few  moments,  shone  like  a 
diamond  set  in  emeralds,  and  as  we  gazed  we  seemed  to 
see  the  bannered  barges  of  Roderick  Dhu  and  to  hear 
the  martial  echoes  of  "  Hail  to  the  Chief."     Loch  Ach- 
ray  glimmered  forth  for  an  instant  under  the  gray  sky, 
as  when  "the  small  birds  would  not  sing  aloud  "  and  the 


234 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


wrath  equally  of  tempest  and  of  war  hung  silently  above 
it,  in  one  awful  moment  of  suspense.  There  was  a  sud- 
den and  dazzling  vision  of  Loch  Katrine,  and  then  all 
prospect  was  broken,  and,  rolling  down  among  the 
thickly  wooded  dwarf  hills  that  give  the  name  of 
Trosachs  to  this  place,  we  were  lost  in  the  masses  of 


.fr-' 


.'^^••., 


,4^' 


%.;''■  '' 


-■^<^^:.-^ -:/^'W 


Lock  Acht  ay. 


fragrant    foliage   that    girdle   and    adorn,   in   perennial 
verdure  the  hallowed  scene  of  The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

Loch  Katrine  is  another  Lake  Horicon,  with  a  grander 
environment,  and  this,  like  all  the  Scottish  lakes,  has  the 
advantage  of  a  more  evenly  sharp  and  vigorous  air  and 
of  leaden  and  frowning  skies  [in  which,  nevertheless, 
there  is  a  peculiar,  penetrating  light,]  that  darken  their 


XVII 


INTO  THE   HIGHLANDS 


235 


waters  and  impart  to  them  a  dangerous  aspect  that  yet 
is  strangely  beautiful.  As  we  swept  past  Ellen's  island 
and  Fitz-James's  silver  strand  I  was  grateful  to  see  them 
in  the  mystery  of  this  gray  light  and  not  in  the  garish 
sunshine.  All  around  this  sweet  lake  are  the  sentinel 
mountains,  —  Ben  Venue  rising  in  the  south,  Ben  A'an 
in  the  east,  and  all  the  castellated  ramparts  that  girdle 


Loch  Katrine. 

Glen  Finglas  in  the  north.  The  eye  dwells  enraptured 
upon  the  circle  of  the  hills ;  but  by  this  time  the  imag- 
ination is  so  acutely  stimulated,  and  the  mind  is  so  filled 
with  glorious  sights  and  exciting  and  ennobling  reflec- 
tions, that  the  sense  of  awe  is  tempered  with  a  pensive 
sadness,  and  you  feel  yourself  rebuked  and  humbled  by 
the  final  and  effectual  lesson  of  man's  insignificance  that 
is  taught  by  the  implacable  vitality  of  these  eternal  moun- 
tains.    It  is  a  relief  to  be  brought  back  for  a  little  to 


236  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


common  life,  and  this  relief  you  find  in  the  landing  at 
Stronachlachar  and  the  ensuing  drive,  —  across  the  nar- 
row strip  of  the  shire  of  Stirling  that  intervenes  between 
Loch  Katrine  and  Loch  Lomond, — to  the  port  of  In- 
versnaid.     That  drive  is  through  a  wild  and  picturesque 
country,  but  after  the  mountain  road  from  Aberfoyle  to 
the  Trosachs  it  could  not  well  seem  otherwise  than  calm, 
—  at  least  till  the  final  descent  into  the  vale  of  Inver- 
snaid.     From  Inversnaid  there  is  a  short  sail  upon  the 
northern  waters  of  Loch  Lomond,  — -  forever  haunted  by 
the  shaggy  presence  of  Rob  Roy  and  the  fierce  and  ter- 
rible image  of  Helen  Macgregor,  —  and  then,  landing  at 
Ardlui,  you  drive  past  Inverarnan  and  hold  a  northern 
course  to  Crianlarich,  traversing  the  vale  of  the  Falloch 
and  skirting  along  the  western  slope  of  the  grim  and 
gloomy  Grampians,   on  which  for  miles   and   miles   no 
human  habitation  is  seen,  nor  any  living  creature  save 
the  vacant,  abject    sheep.     The   mountains   are   every- 
where now,  brown  with  bracken  and  purple  with  heather, 
stony,  rugged,  endless,  desolate,  and  still  with  a  stillness 
that  is  awful  in    its    pitiless    sense  of   inhumanity  and 
utter   isolation.     At   Crianlarich   the   railway    is   found 
again,  and  thence  you  whirl  onward  through  lands  of 
Breadalbane  and    Argyle   to   the    proud    mountains   of 
Glen    Orchy  and   the  foot  of   that   loveliest  of   all  the 
lovely  waters  of  Scotland,  —  the  ebony  crystal  of  Loch 
Awe.     The  night  is  deepening  over  it  as  I  write  these 
•  words.     The  dark  and  solemn  mountains  that  guard  it 
stretch  away  into  the  mysterious  distance  and  are  lost 
in  the  shuddering  gloom.     The  gray  clouds  have  drifted 
by,  and  the  cold,  clear   stars  of   autumnal   heaven  are 
reflected  in  its  crystal   depth,   unmarred  by  even   the 


XVII 


INTO  THE    HIGHLANDS 


237 


faintest  ripple  upon  its  surface.  A  few  small  boats, 
moored  to  anchored  buoys,  float  motionless  upon  it,  a 
little  way  from  shore.  There,  on  its  lonely  island, 
dimly  visible  in  the  fading  light,  stands  the  gray  ruin 
of  Kilchurn.  A  faint  whisper  comes  from  the  black 
woods  that  fringe  the  mountain  base,  and  floating  from 
far  across  this  lonely,  haunted  water  there  is  a  drowsy 
bird-note  that  calls  to  silence  and  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 


HIGHLAND    BEAUTIES 


BAN,  September  17,  1889.  —  Seen  in  the 
twilight,  as  I  first  saw  it,  Oban  is  a  pretty 
and  picturesque  seaside  village,  gay  with 
glancing  lights  and  busy  with  the  move- 
ments of  rapid  vehicles  and  expeditious 
travellers.  It  is  called  the  capital  of  the  Western  High- 
lands, and  no  doubt  it  deserves  the  name,  for  it  is  the 
common  centre  of  all  the  trade  and  enterprise  of  this 
region,  and  all  the  threads  of  travel  radiate  from  it. 
Built  in  a  semicircle,  alon^g  the  margin  of  a  lovely  shel- 
tered bay,  it  looks  forth  upon  the  wild  waters  of  the 
Firth  of  Lorn,  visible,  southwesterly,  through  the  sable 
sound  of  Kerrera,  while  behind  and  around  it  rises  a 
bold  range  of  rocky  and  sparsely  wooded  hills.  On 
these  are  placed  a  few  villas,  and  on  a  point  toward  the 
north  stand  the  venerable,  ivy-clad  ruins  of  Dunolly 
Castle,  in  the  ancestral  domain  of  the  ancient  Highland 
family  of  Macdougall.  The  houses  of  Oban  are  built 
of  gray  stone  and  are  mostly  modern.  There  are  many 
hotels  fronting  upon  the  Parade,  which  extends  for  a 
long  distance  upon  the  verge  of  the  sea.     The  opposite 

238 


CHAP,  xvni  HIGHLAND   BEAUTIES 


239 


shore  is  Kerrera,  an  island  about  a  mile  distant,  and 
beyond  that  island,  and  beyond  Lorn  water,  extends  the 
beautiful  island  of  Mull,  confronting  iron-ribbed  Mor- 
ven.  In  many  ways  Oban  is  suggestive  of  an  Ameri- 
can seaport  upon  the  New  England  coast.  Various 
characteristics  mark  it  that  may  be  seen  at  Gloucester, 
Massachusetts  [although  that  once  romantic  place  has 
been  spoiled  by  the  Irish  peasantry],  and  at  Mount 
Desert  in  Maine.  The  surroundings,  indeed,  are  dif- 
ferent ;  for  the  Scottish  hills  have  a  delicious  colour  and 
a  wildness  all  their  own ;  while  the  skies,  unlike  those 
of  blue  and  brilliant  America,  lower,  gloom,  threaten, 
and  tinge  the  whole  world  beneath  them,  —  the  moors, 
the  mountains,  the  clustered  gray  villages,  the  lonely 
ruins,  and  the  tumbling  plains  of  the  desolate  sea, — 
with  a  melancholy,  romantic,  shadowy  darkness,  the 
perfect  twilight  of  poetic  vision.  No  place  could  be 
more  practical  than  Oban  is,  in  its  everyday  life,  nor 
any  place  more  sweet  and  dreamlike  to  the  pensive 
mood  of  contemplation  and  the  roving  gaze  of  fancy. 
Viewed,  as  I  viewed  it,  under  the  starlight  and  the 
drifting  cloud,  between  two  and  three  o'clock  this  morn- 
ing, it  was  a  picture  of  beauty,  never  to  be  forgotten. 
A  few  lights  were  twinkling  here  and  there  among  the 
dwellings,  or  momentarily  flaring  on  the  deserted  Pa- 
rade. No  sound  was  heard  but  the  moaning  of  the 
night-wind  and  the  plash  of  waters  softly  surging  on  the 
beach.  Now  and  then  a  belated  passenger  came  wan- 
dering along  the  pavement  and  disappeared  in  a  turn  of 
the  road.  The  air  was  sweet  with  the  mingled  fra- 
grance of  the  heathery  hills  and  the  salt  odours  of  the 
sea.     Upon  the  glassy  bosom  of  the  bay,  dark,  clear. 


„',) 


I 


w 


\ 


•■5!. 


Ale     > 


^ 


i'\ 


r 

■•1       N 


CHAP.  xvHi  HIGHLAND   BEAUTIES  24I 

and  gently  undulating  with  the  pressure  of  the  ocean 
tide,  more  than  seventy  small  boats,  each  moored  at  a 
buoy  and  all  veered  in  one  direction,  swung  careless  on 
the  water ;  and  mingled  with  them  were  upward  of 
twenty  schooners  and  little  steamboats,  all  idle  and  all 
at  peace.  Many  an  hour  of  toil  and  sorrow  is  yet  to 
come,  before  the  long,  strange  journey  of  life  is  ended ; 
but  the  memory  of  that  wonderful  midnight  moment, 
alone  with  the  majesty  of  Nature,  will  be  a  solace  in  the 
darkest  of  them. 

The  Highland  journey,  from  first  to  last,  is  an  experi- 
ence altogether  novel  and  precious,  and  it  is  remem- 
bered with  gratitude  and  delight.  ]3efore  coming  to 
Oban  I  gave  two  nights  and  days  to  Loch  Awe,  —  a 
place  so  beautiful  and  so  fraught  with  the  means  of 
happiness  that  time  stands  still  in  it,  and  even  "  the 
ceaseless  vulture  "  of  care  and  regret  ceases  for  a  while 
to  vex  the  spirit  with  remembrance  of  anything  that  is 
sad.  Looking  down  from  the  summit  of  one  of  the 
great  mountains  that  are  the  rich  and  rugged  setting  of 
this  jewel,  I  saw  the  crumbling  ruin  of  Kilchurn  upon 
its  little  island,  gray  relic  first  of  the  Macgregors  and 
then  of  the  Campbells,  who  dispossessed  them  and 
occupied  their  realm.  It  must  have  been  an  imperial 
residence  once.  Its  situation,  —  cut  off  from  the  main- 
land and  commanding  a  clear  view,  up  the  lake  and 
down  the  valleys,  southward  and  northward,  —  is  su- 
perb. No  enemy  could  approach  it  unawares,  and 
doubtless  the  followers  of  the  Macgregor  occupied  every 
adjacent  pass  and  were  ambushed  in  every  thicket  on 
the  heights.  Seen  from  the  neighbouring  mountain- 
side the  waters  of  Loch  Awe  are  of  such  crystal  clear- 

Q 


242 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 


ness  that  near  some  parts  of  the  shore  the  white  sands 
are  visible  in  perfect  outUne  beneath  them,  while  all  the 
glorious  engirdling  hills  are  reflected  in  their  still  and 
shining  depth.  Sometimes  the  sun  flashed  out  and 
changed  the  waters  to  liquid  silver,  lighting  up  the  gray 
ruin  and  flooding  the  mountain  slopes  with  gold  ;  but 
more  often  the  skies  kept  their  sombre  hue,  darkening 
all  beneath  them  with  a  lovely  gloom.  All  around  were 
the  beautiful  hills  of  Glen  Orchy,  and  far  to  the  east- 
ward great  waves  of  white  and  leaden  mist,  slowly 
drifting  in  the  upper  ether,  now  hid  and  now  disclosed 
the  Olympian  head  of  Ben  Lui  and  the  tangled  hills  of 
Glen  Shirra  and  Glen  Fyne.  Close  by,  in  its  sweet 
vale  of  Sabbath  stillness,  was  couched  the  little  town 
of  Dalmally,  sole  reminder  of  the  presence  of  man  in 
these  remote  solitudes,  where  Nature  keeps  the  temple 
of  her  worship,  and  where  words  are  needless  to  utter 
her  glory  and  her  praise.  All  day  long  the  peaceful 
lake  slumbered  in  placid  beauty  under  the  solemn  sky, 
—  a  few  tiny  boats  and  two  little  steamers  swinging  at 
anchor  on  its  bosom.  All  day  long  the  shadows  of  the 
clouds,  commingled  with  flecks  of  sunshine,  went  drift- 
ing over  the  mountain.  At  nightfall  two  great  flocks  of 
sheep,  each  attended  by  the  pensive  shepherd  in  his 
plaid,  and  each  guided  and  managed  by  those  wonder- 
fully intelligent  collies  that  are  a  never-failing  delight 
in  these  mountain  lands,  came  .slowly  along  the  vale 
and  presently  vanished  in  Glen  Strae.  Nothing  then 
broke  the  stillness  but  the  sharp  cry  of  the  shepherd's 
dog  and  the  sound  of  many  cataracts,  some  hidden  and 
some  seen,  that  lapse  in  music  and  fall  in  many  a  mass 
of  shattered  silver  and  flying  spray,  through  deep,  rocky 


XVIII  HIGHLAND   BEAUTIES  243 

rifts  down  the  mountain-side.  After  sunset  a  cold  wind 
came  on  to  blow,  and  soon  the  heavens  were  clear  and 
"all  the  number  of  the  stars"  were  mirrored  in  beauti- 
ful Loch  Awe. 

They  speak  of  the  southwestern  extremity  of  this  lake 
as  the  head  of  it.  Loch  Awe  station,  accordingly,  is  at 
its  foot,  near  Kilchurn.  Nevertheless,  "  where  Mac- 
gregor  sits  is  the  head  of  the  table,"  for  the  foot  of  the 
loch  is  lovelier  than  its  head.  And  yet  its  head  also  is 
lovely,  although  in  a  less  positive  way.  From  Loch 
Awe  station  to  Ford,  a  distance  of  twenty-six  miles,  you 
sail  in  a  toy  steamboat,  sitting  either  on  the  open  deck 
or  in  a  cabin  of  glass  and  gazing  at  the  panorama  of 
the  hills  on  either  hand,  some  wooded  and  some  bare, 
and  all  magnificent.  A  little  after  passing  the  mouth 
of  the  river  Awe,  which  flows  through  the  black  Pass 
of  Brander  and  unites  with  Loch  Etive,  I  saw  the 
double  crest  of  great  Ben  Cruachan  towering  into  the 
clouds  and  visible  at  intervals  above  them,  —  the  higher 
peak  magnificently  bold.  It  is  a  wild  country  all  about 
this  region,  but  here  and  there  you  see  a  little  hamlet 
or  a  lone  farm-house,  and  among  the  moorlands  the 
occasional  figure  of  a  sportsman,  with  his  dog  and  gun. 
As  the  boat  sped  onward  into  the  moorland  district  the 
mountains  became  great  shapes  of  snowy  crystal,  under 
the  sullen  sky,  and  presently  resolved  into  vast  cloud- 
shadows,  dimly  outlined  against  the  northern  heavens, 
and  seemingly  based  upon  a  sea  of  rolling  vapour.  The 
sail  is  past  Inisdrynich,  the  island  of  the  Druids,  past 
Inishail  and  Inisfraoch,  and  presently  past  the  lovely 
ruin  of  Inischonnel  Castle,  called  also  Ardchonnel,  fac- 
ing southward,  at  the  end  of  an  island  promontory,  and 


244  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

covered  thick  with  ivy.  The  landing  is  at  Ford  Pier, 
and  about  one  mile  from  that  point  you  may  see  a  little 
inn,  a  few  cottages  crumbling  in  picturesque  decay,  and 
a  diminutive  kirk,  that  constitute  the  village  of  Ford. 
My  purpose  here  was  to  view  an  estate  close  by  this 
village,  now  owned  by  Henry  Bruce,  Esq.,  but  many 
years  ago  the  domain  of  Alexander  Campbell,  Esq.,  an 
ancestor  of  my  children,  being  their  mother's  grandsire ; 
and  not  in  all  Scotland  could  be  found  a  more  romantic 
spot  than  the  glen  by  the  lochside  that  shelters  the 
melancholy,  decaying,  haunted  fabric  of  the  old  house 
of  Ederline.  Such  a  poet  as  Edgar  Poe  would  have 
revelled  in  that  place,  —  and  well  he  might !  There  is 
a  new  and  grand  mansion,  on  higher  ground,  in  the 
park ;  but  the  ancient  house,  almost  abandoned  now,  is 
a  thousand  times  more  characteristic  and  interesting 
than  the  new  one.  Both  are  approached  through  a 
long,  winding  avenue,  overhung  with  great  trees  that 
interlace  their  branches  above  it  and  make  a  cathedral 
aisle ;  but  soon  the  pathway  to  the  older  house  turns 
aside  into  a  grove  of  chestnuts,  birches,  and  yews, — 
winding  under  vast  dark  boughs  that  bend  like  serpents 
completely  to  the  earth  and  then  ascend  once  more,  — 
and  so  goes  onward,  through  sombre  glades  and  through 
groves  of  rhododendron,  to  the  levels  of  Loch  Ederline 
and  the  front  of  the  mansion,  now  desolate  and  half  in 
ruins.  It  was  an  old  house  a  hundred  years  ago.  It  is 
covered  with  ivy  and  buried  among  the  trees,  and  on 
its  surface  and  on  the  tree-trunks  around  it  the  lichen 
and  the  yellow  moss  have  gathered,  in  rank  luxuriance. 
The  waters  of  the  lake  ripple  upon  a  rocky  landing 
almost  at  its  door.     Here  once  lived  as  proud  a  Camp- 


XVIII  HIGHLAND    BEAUTIES  245 

bell  as  ever  breathed  in  Scotland,  and  here  his  haughty- 
spirit  wrought  out  for  itself  the  doom  of  a  lonely  age 
and  a  broken  heart.  His  grave  is  on  a  little  island  in 
the  lake,  —  a  family  burying-ground,^  such  as  may  often 
be  found  on  ancient,  sequestered  estates  in  the  High- 
lands,—  where  the  tall  trees  wave  above  it  and  the 
weeds  are  growing  thick  upon  its  surface,  while  over  it 
the  rooks  caw  and  clamour  and  the  idle  winds  career, 
in  heedless  indifference  that  is  sadder  even  than  neg- 
lect. So  destiny  vindicates  its  inexorable  edict  and  the 
great  law  of  retribution  is  fulfilled.  A  stranger  sits  in 
his  seat  and  rules  in  his  hall,  and  of  all  the  followers 
that  once  waited  on  his  lightest  word  there  remains  but 
a  single  one,  —  aged,  infirm,  and  nearing  the  end  of  the 
long  journey,  —  to  scrape  the  moss  from  his  forgotten 
gravestone  and  to  think  sometimes  of  his  ancient  great- 
ness and  splendour,  forever  passed  away.  We  rowed 
around  Loch  Ederline  and  looked  down  into  its  black 
waters,  that  in  some  parts  have  never  been  sounded, 
and  are  fabled  to  reach  through  to  the  other  side  of  the 


'&■ 


^  On  the  stone  that  marks  this  sepulchre  are  inscriptions,  which  may 
suitably  be  preserved  in  this  chronicle : 

"  Alexander  Campbell  Esquire,  of  Ederline.  Died  2'^  October,  1841. 
In  his  76*  year. 

Matilda  Campbell.  Second  daughter  of  William  Campbell  Esq.,  of 
Ederline.     Died  on  the  21^'  Nov''    1842.     In  her  6'^  year. 

William  Campbell  Esq.,  of  Ederline.  Died  15"'  January  1855,  in  his 
42nd  year. 

Lachlan  Aderson  Campbell.  His  son.  Died  January  27"^,  1859.  In 
his  5*  year." 

[John  Campbell,  the  eldest  son  of  Alexander,  died  February  26, 
1855,  aged  45,  and  was  buried  in  the  Necropolis,  at  Toronto,  Canada.  His 
widow,  Janet  Tulloch  Campbell,  a  native  of  Wick,  Caithness,  died  at 
Toronto,  August  24,  1878,  aged  65,  and  was  buried  beside  him.] 


246  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


world,  and,  as  our  oars  dipped  and  plashed,  the  timid 
moor-fowl  scurried  into  the  bushes  and  the  white  swans 
sailed  away  in  haughty  wrath,  while,  warned  by  gather- 
ing storm-clouds,  multitudes  of  old  rooks,  that  long  have 
haunted  the  place,  came  flying  overhead,  with  many  a 
querulous  croak,  toward  their  nests  in  Ederline  grove. 

Back  to  Loch  Awe  station,  and  presently  onward 
past  the  Falls  of  Cruachan  and  through  the  grim  Pass 
of  Brander,  —  down  which  the  waters  of  the  Awe  rush 
in  a  sable  flood  between  jagged  and  precipitous  cliffs 
for  miles  and  miles,  — and  soon  we  see  the  bright  waves 
of  Loch  Etive  smiling  under  a  sunset  sky,  and  the 
many  bleak,  brown  hills  that  fringe  Glen  Lonan  and 
range  along  to  Oban  and  the  verge  of  the  sea.  There 
will  be  an  hour  for  rest  and  thought.  It  seems  wild 
and  idle  to  write  about  these  things.  Life  in  Scotland 
is  deeper,  richer,  stronger,  and  sweeter  than  any  words 
could  possibly  be  that  any  man  could  possibly  expend 
upon  it.  The  place  is  the  natural  home  of  imagina- 
tion, romance,  and  poetry.  Thought  is  grander  here, 
and  passion  is  wilder  and  more  exuberant  than  on  the 
velvet  plains  and  among  the  chaste  and  stately  elms  of 
the  South.  The  blood  flows  in  a  stormier  torrent  and 
the  mind  takes  on  something  of  the  gloomy  and  savage 
majesty  of  those  gaunt,  barren,  lonely  hills.  Even  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  speaking  of  his  own  great  works, — which 
are  precious  beyond  words,  and  must  always  be  loved 
and  cherished  by  readers  who  know  what  beauty  is,  — • 
said  that  all  he  had  ever  done  was  to  polish  the  brasses 
that  already  were  made.  This  is  the  soul  of  excellence 
in  British  literature,  and  this,  likewise,  is  the  basis  of 
stability    in    British    civilisation, —  that    the    country   is 


246  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  CHAr. 

world,  and,  as  our  oars  dipped  and  plashed,  the  timid 
mo  '  ted  into  the  bushes  and  the  white  swans 

'        vrath,  while,  warned  by  gather- 

"  of  old  rooks,  that  long  have 

•   '•'•erhead,  with  many  a 

.!  .,  .  in  Edcrline  grove. 

i  .och  Aw'.  ■■'*    nresently   onward 

•■I  Cruachan  .  ^  the  grim  Pass 

of  —down  which  the  wn  >   the  Awe  rush 

in  a  sable  flood  between  jagged  anci   i  r  ;cipitous  clijEfs 

for  miles  and  miles,  -  we  see  th.  "aright  waves 

of    Loch    Etive  smiling  under  set  sky,  and   the 

many  bleak,  brown  hills  that  inn^^5^]l^yQj.onan  and 

range  along  to  Oban  and  the  verge  of  the  sea.     There 

will  be  an  hour  f 

an'-'  -^  '■■     ■  .j^ 

,  a.  1     -1 1 IV     w  ui'ClS 

..     ....J   .......  .,.  ...d  poss'^^i^'  .-VM -tj 

X  ne  place  is  the  natural  honio    .-."ii^- 

tion,  romance,  and  poetry.  Thought  is  grander  here, 
and  passion  is  wilder  and  more  exuberant  than  on  the 
velvet  plains  and  among  the  chaste  and  stately  elms  of 
the  South.  The  blood  flows  in  a  stormier  torrent  and 
the  mind  takes  on  something  of  the  gloomy  and  savage 
majesty  of  those  gaunt,  barren,  lonely  hills.  Even  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  speaking  of  his  own  great  vvorks, — which 
are  precious  beyond  words,  and  must  always  be  loved 
and  cherished  by  readers  who  know  what  beauty  is, — 
said  that  all  he  had  ever  done  was  to  polish  the  brasses 
that  already  were  made.  This  is  the  soul  of  excellence 
in  British  literature,  and  this,  likewise,  is  the  basis  of 
Ktabilitv    in    British    civiiis-irion  ---  that    the    country  is 


VP,:«  ''fl^^^^^l^l 

1 

'^1 

I 

A 

< 

:^^n| 

1 

J^B 

1 

a^H 

■   m 

w 

^  ^HS^HIiljIiB^H 

..Mm 

i 

XVIII 


HIGHLAND   BEAUTIES 


247 


lovelier  than  the  loveliest  poetry  that  ever  was  written 
about  it,  or  ever  could  be  written  about  it,  and  that  the 
land  and  the  life  possess  an  inherent  fascination  for  the 
inhabitants,  that  nothing  else  could  supply,  and  that  no 
influence  can  ever  destroy  or  even  seriously  disturb. 
Democracy  is  rife  all  over  the  world,  but  it  will  as  soon 
impede  the  eternal  courses  of  the  stars  as  it  will  change 
the  constitution  or  shake  the  social  fabric  of  this  realm. 
"  Once  more  upon  the  waters  —  yet  once  more !  "  Soon 
upon  the  stormy  billows  of  Lorn  I  shall  see  these  lovely 
shores  fade  in  the  distance.  Soon,  merged  again  in  the 
strife  and  tumult  of  the  commonplace  world,  I  shall 
murmur,  with  as  deep  a  sorrow  as  the  sad  strain  itself 
expresses,  the  tender  words  of  Scott : 

"  Glenorchy's  proud  mountains, 
Kilchurn  and  her  towers, 
Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon 
No  longer  are  ours." 


Corbel  from  "  St.   Giles." 


^W'^wm^^^^^ 


J^l^  xS<S.f  -^  ^^^  -j^  ^^  TJ'  -^  -^t^.  ^'^1S/^^ 


CHAPTER   XIX 


THE    HEART    OF    SCOTLAND 


"  TAe  Heart  of  Scotland,  Britain's  oilier  eyeT  —  Ben  Jonson 

DINBURGH,  August  24,  1890.— Abright 
blue  sky,  across  which  many  masses  of 
thin  white  cloud  are  borne  swiftly  on  the 
cool  western  wind,  bends  over  the  stately 
city,  and  all  her  miles  of  gray  mansions 
and  spacious,  cleanly  streets  sparkle  beneath  it  in  a  flood 
of  summer  sunshine.  It  is  the  Lord's  Day,  and  most  of 
the  highways  are  deserted  and  quiet.  From  the  top 
of  the  Calton  Hill  you  look  down  upon  hundreds  of 
blue  smoke-wreaths  curling  upward  from  the  chimneys 
of  the  resting  and  restful  town,  and  in  every  direction 
the  prospect  is  one  of  opulence  and  peace.  A  thou- 
sand years  of  history  are  here  crystallised  within  the 
circuit  of  a  single  glance,  and  while  you  gaze  upon 
one  of  the  grandest  emblems  that  the  world  contains 
of  a  storied  and  romantic  past,  you  behold  likewise  a 
living  and  resplendent  pageant  of  the  beauty  of  to-day. 
Nowhere  else  are  the  Past  and  the  Present  so  lovingly 

248 


CHAP.  XIX 


THE   HEART  OF   SCOTLAND 


249 


blended.  There,  in  the  centre,  towers  the  great  crown 
of  St.  Giles.  Hard  by  are  the  quaint  slopes  of  the 
Canongate, — teeming  with  illustrious,  or  picturesque, 
or  terrible  figures  of  Long  Ago.  Yonder  the  glorious 
Castle  Crag  looks  steadfastly  westward,  —  its  manifold, 
wonderful  colours  continuously  changing  in  the  change- 


H  oly  rood, 
and  by  one 
presence, 
Salisbury 
of    Arthur's 


ful  daylight.     Down  in  the  valley 
haunted  by  a  myriad  of  memories 
resplendent    face    and    entrancing 
nestles   at    the   foot   of   the   giant 
Crag ;  while  the  dark,  rivened  peak 
Seat  rears  itself  supremely  over  the 
whole    stupendous  scene.      South- 
ward and   westward,  in   the 
distance,  extends   the  bleak 
range  of  the  Pentland  Hills 
eastward  the  cone 
of   Berwick    Law 
and  the  desolate  ;, 

Bass  Rock   seem  / 

to  cleave  the  sea  ; 
and  northward, 
beyond  the  glis- 
tening crystal  of 
the  Forth,  —  with  l^ 

the  white  lines  of 
embattled  Inch- 
keith  like   a  dia-  ■>'' 

mond  on  its  bos- 
om, —  the   lovely 
Lomonds,  the  virginal    mountain    breasts  of    Fife,  are 
bared  to  the  kiss  of  heaven.      It  is  such  a  picture  as 


77/.?  Croiun  of  St.    Giles's. 


250  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap, 

words  can  but  faintly  suggest ;  but  when  you  look  upon 
it  you  readily  comprehend  the  pride  and  the  passion 
with  which  a  Scotsman  loves  his  native  land. 

Dr.  Johnson  named  Edinburgh  as  "  a  city  too  well 
known  to  admit  description."  That  judgment  was  pro- 
claimed more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  —  before  yet 
Caledonia  had  bewitched  the  world's  heart  as  the 
haunted  land  of  Robert  Burns  and  Walter  Scott, — 
and  if  it  were  true  then  it  is  all  the  more  true  now. 
But  while  the  reverent  pilgrim  along  the  ancient  high- 
ways of  history  may  not  wisely  attempt  description, 
which  would  be  superfluous,  he  perhaps  may  usefully 
indulge  in  brief  chronicle  and  impression,  —  for  these 
sometimes  prove  suggestive  to  minds  that  are  kindred 
with  his  own.  Hundreds  of  travellers  visit  Edinburgh, 
but  it  is  one  thing  to  visit  and  another  thing  to  see  ; 
and  every  suggestion,  surely,  is  of  value  that  helps  to 
clarify  our  vision.  This  capital  is  not  learned  by  driv- 
ing about  in  a  cab ;  for  Edinburgh  to  be  truly  seen  and 
comprehended  must  be  seen  and  comprehended  as  an 
exponent  of  the  colossal  individuality  of  the  Scottish 
character ;  and  therefore  it  must  be  observed  with 
thought.  Here  is  no  echo  and  no  imitation.  Many 
another  provincial  city  of  Britain  is  a  miniature  copy 
of  London ;  but  the  quality  of  Edinburgh  is  her  own. 
Portions  of  her  architecture  do  indeed  denote  a  rev- 
erence for  ancient  Italian  models,  while  certain  other 
portions  reveal  the  influence  of  the  semi-classical  taste 
that  prevailed  in  the  time  of  the  Regent,  afterwards 
George  the  Fourth.  The  democratic  tendency  of  this 
period,  —  expressing  itself  here  precisely  as  it  does 
everywhere  else,  in  button-making  pettiness    and  vul- 


XIX  THE   HEART   OF   SCOTLAND  25  I 

gar  commonplace,  —  is  likewise  sufficiently  obvious. 
Nevertheless,  in  every  important  detail  of  Edinburgh 
and  of  its  life,  the  reticent,  resolute,  formidable,  im- 
petuous, passionate  character  of  the  Scottish  race  is 
conspicuous  and  predominant.  Much  has  been  said 
against  the  Scottish  spirit,  —  the  tide  of  cavil  purling 
on  from  Dr.  Johnson  to  Sydney  Smith.  Dignity  has 
been  denied  to  it,  and  so  has  magnanimity,  and  so  has 
humour ;  but  there  is  no  audience  more  quick  than  the 
Scottish  audience  to  respond  either  to  pathos  or  to 
mirth ;  there  is  no  literature  in  the  world  so  musically, 
tenderly,  and  weirdly  poetical  as  the  Scottish  litera- 
ture ;  there  is  no  place  on  earth  where  the  imagina- 
tive instinct  of  the  national  mind  has  resisted,  as  it 
has  resisted  in  Scotland,  the  encroachment  of  utility 
upon  the  domain  of  romance ;  there  is  no  people  whose 
history  has  excelled  that  of  Scotland  in  the  display  of 
heroic,  intellectual,  and  moral  purpose,  combined  with 
passionate  sensibility ;  and  no  city  could  surpass  the 
physical  fact  of  Edinburgh  as  a  manifestation  of  broad 
ideas,  unstinted  opulence,  and  grim  and  rugged  gran- 
deur. Whichever  way  you  turn,  and  whatever  object 
you  behold,  that  consciousness  is  always  present  to 
your  thought,  —  the  consciousness  of  a  race  of  beings 
intensely  original,  individual,  passionate,  authoritative, 
and  magnificent. 

The  capital  of  Scotland  is  xiot  only  beautiful  but  elo- 
quent. The  present  writer  does  not  assume  to  describe 
it,  or  to  instruct  the  reader  concerning  it,  but  only  to 
declare  that  at  every  step  the  sensitive  mind  is  im- 
pressed vnth.  the  splendid  intellect,  the  individual  force, 
and  the  romantic  charm  of  the  Scottish  character,  as  it 


Efcjii: 


Scott's  House  ill  Edinburgh. 


CHAP.  XIX.  THE   HEART   OF   SCOTLAND  253 

is  commemorated  and  displayed  in  this  delightful  place. 
What  a  wealth  of  significance  it  possesses  may  be  indi- 
cated by  even  the  most  meagre  record  and  the  most 
superficial  commentary  vipon  the  passing  events  of  a 
traveller's  ordinary  day.  The  greatest  name  in  the 
literature  of  Scotland  is  Walter  Scott.  He  lived  and 
laboured  for  twenty-four  years  in  the  modest  three- 
story,  gray  stone  house  which  is  No.  39  Castle  street. 
It  has  been  my  privilege  to  enter  that  house,  and  to 
stand  in  the  room  in  which  Scott' began  the  novel  of 
Waverley.  Many  years  roll  backward  under  the  spell 
of  such  an  experience,  and  the  gray-haired  man  is  a 
boy  again,  with  all  the  delights  of  the  Waverley  Novels 
before  him,  health  shining  in  his  eyes,  and  joy  beating 
in  his  heart,  as  he  looks  onward  through  vistas  of 
golden  light  into  a  paradise  of  fadeless  flowers  and  of 
happy  dreams.  The  room  that  was  Scott's  study  is  a 
small  one,  on  the  first  floor,  at  the  back,  and  is  lighted 
by  one  large  window,  opening  eastward,  through  which 
you  look  upon  the  rear  walls  of  sombre,  gray  buildings, 
and  upon  a  small  slope  of  green  lawn,  in  which  is  the 
unmarked  grave  of  one  of  Sir  Walter's  dogs.  "The 
misery  of  keeping  a  dog,"  he  once  wrote,  "  is  his  dying 
so  soon ;  but,  to  be  sure,  if  he  lived  for  fifty  years 
and  then  died,  what  would  become  of  me.-*"  My 
attention  was  called  to  a  peculiar  fastening  on  the 
window  of  the  study,  —  invented  and  placed  there  by 
Scott  himself,  —  so  arranged  that  the  sash  can  be 
safely  kept  locked  when  raised  a  few  inches  from  the 
sill.  On  the  south  side  of  the  room  is  the  fireplace, 
facing  which  he  would  sit  as  he  wrote,  and  into  which, 
of  an  evening,  he  has  often  gazed,  hearing  meanwhile 


2  54  GRAY   DAYS    AND   GOLD  chap. 

the  moan  of  the  winter  wind,  and  conjuring  up,  in  the 
blazing  brands,  those  figures  of  brave  knights  and  gen- 
tle ladies  that  were  to  live  forever  in  the  amber  of  his 
magical  art.  Next  to  the  study,  on  the  same  floor,  is 
the  larger  ajDartment  that  was  his  dining-room,  where 
his  portrait  of  Claverhouse,  now  at  Abbotsford,  once 
hung  above  the  mantel,  and  where  so  many  of  the 
famous  people  of  the  past  enjoyed  his  hospitality  and 
his  talk.  On  the  south  wall  of  this  room  now  hang 
two  priceless  autograph  letters,  one  of  them  in  the 
handwriting  of  Scott,  the  other  in  that  of  Burns. 
Both  rooms  are  used  for  business  offices  now,  —  thfe 
house  being  tenanted  by  the  agency  of  the  New  Zea- 
land Mortgage  Company,  —  and  both  are  furnished 
with  large  presses,  for  the  custody  of  deeds  and  family 
archives.  Nevertheless  these  rooms  remain  much  as 
they  were  when  Scott  lived  in  them,  and  his  spirit 
seems  to  haunt  the  place.  I  was  brought  very  near 
to  him  that  day,  for  in  the  same  hour  was  placed  in 
my  hands  the  original  manuscript  of  his  Journal,  and 
I  saw,  in  his  handwriting,  the  last  words  that  ever 
fell  from  his  pen.  That  Joujiial  is  in  two  quarto 
volumes.  One  of  them  is  filled  with  writing ;  the 
other  half  filled ;  and  the  lines  in  both  are  of  a  fine, 
small  character,  crowded  closely  together.  Toward  the 
last  the  writing  manifests  only  too  well  the  growing 
infirmity  of  the  broken  Minstrel,  —  the  forecast  of  the 
hallowed  deathbed  of  Abbotsford  and  the  venerable 
and  glorious  tomb  of  Dryburgh.  These  are  his  last 
words  :  "  We  slept  reasonably,  but  on  the  next  morn- 
ing" —  and  so  the  Journal  abruptly  ends.  I  can  in 
no  way  express  the  emotion  with  which  I  looked  upon 


XIX 


THE   HEART   OF   SCOTLAND 


255 


those  feebly  scrawled  syllables,  —  the  last  effort  of  the 
nerveless  hand  that  once  had  been  strong  enough  to 
thrill  the  heart  of  all  the  world.  The  Journal  has  been 
lovingly  and  carefully  edited  by  David  Douglas,  whose 
fine  taste  and  great  gentleness  of  nature,  together  with 
his  ample  knowledge  of  Scottish  literature  and  society, 
eminently  qualify  him  for  the  performance  of  this  sa- 
cred duty ;  and  the  world  will  possess  this  treasure  and 
feel  the  charm  of  its  beauty  and  pathos,  —  which  is  the 
charm  of  a  great  nature  expressed  in  its  perfect  sim- 
plicity ;  but  the  spell  that  is  cast  upon  the  heart  and 
the  imagination  by  a  prospect  of  the  actual  handwrit- 
ing of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  in  the  last  words  that  he  wrote, 
cannot  be  conveyed  in  print. 

From  the  house  in  Castle  street  I  went  to  the  rooms 
of  the  Royal  Society,  where  there  is  a  portrait  of  Scott, 
by  John  Graham  Gilbert, 
more  lifelike,  —  being  rep- 
resentative of  his  soul  as 
well  as  his  face  and  person, 
—  than  any  other  that  is 
known.  It  hangs  there,  in 
company  with  other  paint- 
ings of  former  presidents  of 
this  institution,  —  notably 
one  of  Sir  David  Brewster 
and  one  of  James  Watt,  — 
in  the  hall  in  which  Sir 
Walter  often  sat,  presiding 
over  the    deliberations    and 

literary  exercises  of  his  comrades  in  scholarship  and  art. 
In  another  hall  I  saw  a  pulpit  in  which  John  Knox  used  to 


The  Maiden. 


256 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP.    XIX 


preach,  in  the  old  days  of  what  Dr.  Johnson  expressively 
called  "The  ruffians  of  Reformation,"  and  hard  by  was 
"  The  Maiden,"  the  terrible  Scottish  guillotine,  with  its 
great  square  knife,  set  in  a  thick  weight  of  lead,  by 
which  the  grim  Regent  Morton  was  slain,  in  1581,  the 
Marquis  of  Argyle,  in  1661,  and  the  gallant,  magnani- 
mous, devoted  Earl  of  Argyle,  in  1685,  —  one  more 
sacrifice  to  the  insatiate  House  of  Stuart.     This  mon- 


4  ^t^L-i--- 


Grayfrian  Church. 


ster  has  drunk  the  blood  of  many  a  noble  gentleman, 
and  there  is  a  weird,  sinister  suggestion  of  gratified 
ferocity  and  furtive  malignity  in  its  rude,  grisly,  un- 
canny fabric  of  blackened  timbers.  You  may  see,  in 
the  quaint  little  panelled  chapel  of  St.  Mary  Magdalene, 
in  the  Cowgate,  not  distant  from  the  present  abode  of 
the  sanguinary  Maiden,  —  brooding  over  her  hideous 
consummation    of  slaughter   and    misery,  —  the    place 


F~sr 


^=s%?a 


fc3 


High  Stieet  —  ^-illan  Ramsay's  Shop. 


258  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


where  the  mangled  body  of  the  heroic  Argyle  was 
laid,  in  secret  sanctuary,  for  several  nights  after  that 
scene  of  piteous  sacrifice  at  the  old  Market  Cross  ;  and 
when  you  walk  in  the  solemn  enclosure  of  the  Gray- 
friars  church,  —  so  fitly  styled,  by  Sir  Walter,  The 
Westminster  Abbey  of  Scotland,  —  your  glance  will 
fall  upon  a  sunken  pillar,  low  down  upon  the  northern 
slope  of  that  haunted,  lamentable  ground,  which  bears 
the  letters  "  I.  M.,"  and  which  marks  the  grave  of  the 
baleful  Morton,  whom  the  Maiden  decapitated,  for  his 
share  in  the  murder  of  Rizzio.  In  these  old  cities  there 
is  no  keeping  away  from  sepulchres.  "  The  paths  of 
glory,"  in  every  sense,  "lead  but  to  the  grave."  George 
Buchanan  and  Allan  Ramsay,  poets  whom  no  literary 
pilgrim  will  neglect,  rest  in  this  churchyard,  though 
the  exact  places  of  their  interment  are  not  positively 
denoted,  and  here,  likewise,  rest  the  elegant  his- 
torian Robertson,  and  "the  Addison  of  Scotland," 
Henry  Mackenzie.  The  building  in  the  High  street 
in  which  Allan  Ramsay  once  had  his  abode  and  his 
bookshop,  and  in  which  he  wrote  his  pastoral  of  The 
Gentle  Shepherd,  is  occupied  now  by  a  barber;  but, 
since  he  is  one  that  scorns  not  to  proclaim  over  his  door, 
in  mighty  letters,  the  poetic  lineage  of  his  dwelling,  it 
seems  not  amiss  that  this  haunt  of  the  Muses  should 
have  fallen  into  such  lowly  hands.  Of  such  a  character, 
hallowed  with  associations  that  pique  the  fancy  and  touch 
the  heart,  are  the  places  and  the  names  that  an  itinerant 
continually  encounters  in  his  rambles  in  Edinburgh. 

The  pilgrim  could  muse  for  many  an  hour  over  the 
Httle  Venetian  mirror ^  that  hangs    in  the   bedroom  of 

1  It  is  a  small  oval  glass,  of  which  the  rim  is  fashioned  with  crescents, 
twenty-two  of  them  on  each  side. 


XIX  THE   HEART  OF   SCOTLAND  259 

Mary  Stuart,  in  Holyrood  Palace.  What  faces  and 
what  scenes  it  must  have  reflected  !  How  often  her 
own  beautiful  countenance  and  person,  —  the  dazzling 
eyes,  the  snowy  brow,  the  red  gold  hair,  the  alabaster 
bosom,  —  may  have  blazed  in  its  crystal  depths,  now 
tarnished  and  dim,  like  the  record  of  her  own  calamitous 
and  wretched  days  !  Did  those  lovely  eyes  look  into 
this  mirror,  and  was  their  glance  scared  and  tremulous, 
or  fixed  and  terrible,  on  that  dismal  February  night,  so 
many  years  ago,  when  the  fatal  explosion  in  the  Kirk 
o'  Field  resounded  with  an  echo  that  has  never  died 
away  ?  Who  can  tell  ?  This  glass  saw  the  gaunt  and 
livid  face  of  Ruthven,  when  he  led  his  comrades  of 
murder  into  that  royal  chamber,  and  it  beheld  Rizzio, 
screaming  in  mortal  terror,  as  he  was  torn  from  the 
skirts  of  his  mistress  and  savagely  slain  before  her  eyes. 
Perhaps,  also,  when  that  hideous  episode  was  over  and 
done  with,  it  saw  Queen  Mary  and  her  despicable  hus- 
band the  next  time  they  met,  and  were  alone  together, 
in  that  ghastly  room.  "  It  shall  be  dear  blood  to  some 
of  you,"  the  queen  had  said,  while  the  murder  of 
Rizzio  was  doing.  Surely,  having  so  injured  a  woman, 
any  man  with  eyes  to  see  might  have  divined  his  fate, 
in  the  perfect  calm  of  her  heavenly  face  and  the  smooth 
tones  of  her  gentle  voice,  at  such  a  moment  as  that. 
"At  the  fireside  tragedies  are  acted," — and  tragic 
enough  must  have  been  the  scene  of  that  meeting, 
apart  from  human  gaze,  in  the  chamber  of  crime  and 
death.  No  other  relic  of  Mary  Stuart  stirs  the  im- 
agination as  that  mirror  does,  —  unless,  perhaps,  it  be 
the  little  ebony  crucifix,  once  owned  and  reverenced 
by    Sir    Walter    Scott    and    now    piously    treasured    at 


CHAP.  XIX  THE   liliART   OF   SCOTLAND  26 1 

Abbotsforcl,  which  she    held    in    her   hands    when   she 
went  to  her  death,  in  the  hall  of  Fotheringay  Castle. 

Holyrood  Palace,  in  Mary  Stuart's  time,  was  not  of 
its  present  shape.  The  tower  containing  her  rooms 
was  standing,  and  from  that  tower  the  building  ex- 
tended eastward  to  the  abbey,  and  then  it  veered  to  the 
south.  Much  of  the  building  was  destroyed  by  fire  in 
1544,  and  again  in  Cromwell's  time,  but  both  church 
and  palace  were  rebuilt.  The  entire  south  side,  with 
its  tower  that  looks  directly  towards  the  crag,  was 
added  in  the  later  period  of  Charles  the  Second.  The 
furniture  in  Mary  Stuart's  room  is  partly  spurious,  but 
the  rooms  are  genuine.  Musing  thus,  and  much  striv- 
ing to  reconstruct  those  strange  scenes  of  the  past,  in 
which  that  beautiful,  dangerous  woman  bore  so  great  a 
part,  the  pilgrim  strolls  away  into  the  Canongate,  — 
once  clean  and  elegant,  now  squalid  and  noisome,  — 
and  still  the  storied  figures  of  history  walk  by  his  side 
or  come  to  meet  him  at  every  close  and  wynd.  John 
Knox,  Robert  Burns,  Tobias  Smollett,  David  Hume, 
Dugald  Stuart,  John  Wilson,  Hugh  Miller,  Gay,  led 
onward  by  the  blithe  and  gracious  Duchess  of  Queens- 
berry,  and  Dr.  Johnson,  escorted  by  the  affectionate 
and  faithful  James  Boswell,  the  best  biographer  that 
ever  lived,  —  these  and  many  more,  the  lettered  worthies 
of  long  ago,  throng  into  this  haunted  street  and  glorify 
it  with  the  rekindled  splendours  of  other  days.  You 
cannot  be  lonely  here.  This  it  is  that  makes  the  place 
so  eloquent  and  so  precious.  For  what  did  those 
men  live  and  labour  ?  To  what  were  their  shining 
talents  and  wonderful  forces  devoted  .■*  To  the  dis- 
semination of   learning ;    to   the    emancipation    of   the 


262  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xix 

human  mind  from  the  bondage  of  error ;  to  the  ministry 
of  the  beautiful,  —  and  thus  to  the  advancement  of  the 
human  race  in  material  comfort,  in  gentleness  of  thought, 
in  charity  of  conduct,  in  refinement  of  manners,  and  in 
that  spiritual  exaltation  by  which,  and  only  by  which, 
the  true  progress  of  mankind  is  at  once  accomplished 
and  proclaimed. 

But  the  dark  has  come,  and  this  Edinburgh  ramble 
shall  end  with  the  picture  that  closed  its  own  magnifi- 
cent day.  You  are  standing  on  the  rocky  summit  of 
Arthur's  Seat.  From  that  superb  mountain  peak  your 
gaze  takes  in  the  whole  capital,  together  with  the  country 
in  every  direction  for  many  miles  around.  The  evening 
is  uncommonly  clear.  Only  in  the  west  dense  masses  of 
black  cloud  are  thickly  piled  upon  each  other,  through 
which  the  sun  is  sinking,  red  and  sullen  with  menace 
of  the  storm.  Elsewhere  and  overhead  the  sky  is 
crystal,  and  of  a  pale,  delicate  blue.  A  cold  wind  blows 
briskly  from  the  east  and  sweeps  a  million  streamers  of 
white  smoke  in  turbulent  panic  over  the  darkening  roofs 
of  the  city,  far  below.  In  the  north  the  lovely  Lomond 
Hills  are  distinctly  visible  across  the  dusky  level  of  the 
Forth,  which  stretches  away  toward  the  ocean,  one 
broad  sheet  of  glimmering  steel,  —  its  margin  indented 
with  many  a  graceful  bay,  and  the  little  islands  that 
adorn  it  shining  like  stones  of  amethyst  set  in  polished 
flint.  A  few  brown  sails  are  visible,  dotting  the  waters, 
and  far  to  the  east  appears  the  graceful  outline  of  the 
Isle  of  May,  —  which  was  the  shrine  of  the  martyred 
St.  Adrian, — and  the  lonely,  wave-beaten  Bass  Rock, 
with  its  millions  of  seagulls  and  solan-geese.  Busy 
Leith  and  picturesque  Newhaven  and  every  little  village 


HOLYROOD    CASTLE 

AND 

ARTHUR'S    SEAT 


262  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xix 

human  r  bondage  of  error  ;  to  the  ministry 

of  th'  i  thus  to  the  advancement  of  the 

hi;  •  I  comfort,  in  gentleness  of  thought, 

in  id,  in  refinement  of  manners,  and  in 

thai  .siii;;.u  '                   .ich,  and  only  by  which, 

I'pr   •           -  -^   .>^  once  accomplished 

the  o ...iS  come,  and  this   .  rgh  ramble 

:  with  the  picture  that  closed  its  own  magnifi- 
cent day.  You  are  standing  on  the  rocky  summit  of 
y\rthur's  Seat.  From  that  superb  mountain  peak  your 
g-aze  takes  in  the  whole  capital,  together  with  the  country 

3JTSA0    aOpJiYJOH 

■nany  ^j[les  around,      ihe  evening 
TA32  2"5iuHT?iA   ^t  dcnsc  masscs  of 

t  h  rough 

.i  .viiii  menace 

urc    auu    uvciiicad    th'-      '"'    is 

Li>sca.,  aau  ol  a  puic,  uelicate  blu'^       '        -t  'a  ,     .  ■  .  ,W3 

briskly  from  the  east  and  sweeps  .     .  streamers  of 

white  smoke  in  turbulent  panic  over  the  darkening  roofs 
of  the  city,  far  below.     In  the  north  the  lovely  Lomond 
Hills  are  distinctly  visible  across  the  dusky  level  of  the 
Forth,   which   stretches   away  toward   the   ocean,    one 
broad  sheet  of  glimmering  steel.  -—  its  margin  indented 
with  many  a  graceful  bay,  and  the  little   islands   that 
adorn  it  shining  like  stones  of  amethyst  set  in  polished 
flint.     A  few  brown  sails  are  vi-.ible,  dotting  the  waters, 
and  far  to  the  east  appears  the  graceful  outline  of  tiv 
Isle  of  May,  — which  was  the  shrine  of  the  martyr^; 
St.  Adrian, — and  the  lonely,  wave-beaten  Bass  Ro' 
with    its   miUions    of   seagulls   and    solan-geese.     ^' 
Leith  and  picturesque  Newhaven  and  every  little  \ 


Si.   Gih-s's,  from  the  Lawn  Market. 


264  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xix 

on  the  coast  is  sharply  defined  in  the  frosty  light.  At 
your  feet  is  St.  Leonards,  with  the  tiny  cottage  of 
Jeanie  Deans.  Yonder,  in  the  south,  are  the  gray  ruins 
of  Craigmillar  Castle,  once  the  favourite  summer  home 
of  the  Queen  of  Scots,  now  open  to  sun  and  rain,  moss- 
grown  and  desolate,  and  swept  by  every  wind  that  blows. 
More  eastward  the  eye  lingers  upon  Carberry  Hill, 
where  Mary  surrendered  herself  to  her  nobles,  just 
before  the  romantic  episode  of  Loch  Leven  Castle ; 
and  far  beyond  that  height  the  sombre  fields,  intersected 
by  green  hawthorn  hedges  and  many-coloured  with  the 
various  hues  of  pasture  and  harvest,  stretch  away  to 
the  hills  of  Lammermoor  and  the  valleys  of  Tweed  and 
Esk.  Darker  and  darker  grow  the  gathering  shadows 
of  the  gloaming.  The  lights  begin  to  twinkle  in  the 
city  streets.  The  echoes  of  the  rifles  die  away  in  the 
Hunter's  Bog.  A  piper  far  off  is  playing  the  plaintive 
music  of  The  Blue  Bells  of  Scotland.  And  as  your 
steps  descend  the  crag,  the  rising  moon,  now  nearly 
at  the  full,  shines  through  the  gauzy  mist  and  hangs 
above  the  mountain  like  a  shield  of  gold  upon  the 
towered  citadel  of  night. 


CHAPTER    XX 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


ORE  than  a  century  has  passed  since 
Walter  Scott  was  born  —  a  poet  destined 
to  exercise  a  profound,  far-reaching,  per- 
manent influence  upon  the  feelings  of  the 
human  race,  and  thus  to  act  a  conspicuous 
part  in  its  moral  and  spiritual  development  and  guidance. 
To  the  greatness  of  his  mind,  the  nobility  of  his  spirit, 
and  the  beauty  of  his  life  there  is  abundant  testimony 
in  his  voluminous  and  diversified  writings,  and  in  his 
ample  and  honest  biography.  Everybody  who  reads 
has  read  something  from  the  pen  of  Scott,  or  some- 
thing commemorative  of  him,  and  in  every  mind  to 
which  his  name  is  known  it  is  known  as  the  synonym 
of  great  faculties  and  wonderful  achievement.  There 
must  have  been  enormous  vitality  of  spirit,  prodigious 
power  of  intellect,  irresistible  charm  of  personality,  and 
lovable  purity  of  moral  nature  in  the  man  whom  thou- 
sands that  never  saw  him  living,  —  men  and  women  of  a 
later  age  and  different  countries, — know  and  remem- 
ber and  love  as  Sir  Walter  Scott.  Others  have  writ- 
ten greatly.  Milton,  Dryden,  Addison,  Pope,  Cowper, 
Johnson,  Byron,  Shelley,  Wordsworth,  Coleridge,  Landor, 

26s 


266 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


—  these  are  only  a  few  of  the  imperial  names  that  can- 
not die.  But  these  names  live  in  the  world's  respect. 
The  name  of  Scott  lives  also  in  its  affection.  What 
other  name  of  the  past  in  English  literature, — unless 
it  be  that  of  Shakespeare, — arouses  such  a  deep  and 
sweet  feeling  of  affectionate  interest,  gentle  pleasure, 

gratitude,  and 
reverential  love .-' 
The  causes  of 
SirWalter  Scott's 
ascendency  are 
to  be  found  in 
the  goodness  of 
his  heart ;  the 
integrity  of  his 
conduct ;  the  ro- 
mantic and  pic- 
turesque ac- 
cessories and 
atmosphere  of  his 
life ;  the  fertile 
brilliancy  of  his 
literary  execu- 
tion ;  the  charm 
that  he  exercises, 
both  as  man  and 
artist,  over  the  imagination  ;  the  serene,  tranquillising 
spirit  of  his  works  ;  and,  above  all,  the  buoyancy,  the 
happy  freedom,  of  his  genius.  He  was  not  simply  an 
intellectual  power ;  he  was  also  a  human  and  gentle 
comforter.  He  wielded  an  immense  mental  force,  but 
he  always  wielded  it  for  good,  and  always  with  ten- 


Sir  Walter  Scott. 


XX  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  26/ 

derness.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  of  his  ever  having 
done  a  wrong  act,  or  of  any  contact  with  his  influence 
that  would  not  inspire  the  wish  to  be  virtuous  and 
noble.  The  scope  of  his  sympathy  was  as  broad  as  the 
weakness  and  the  need  are  of  the  human  race.  He 
understood  the  hardship,  the  dilemma,  in  the  moral  con- 
dition of  mankind :  he  wished  people  to  be  patient  and 
cheerful,  and  he  tried  to  make  them  so.  His  writings 
are  full  of  sweetness  and  cheer,  and  they  contain  nothing 
that  is  morbid,  —  nothing  that  tends  toward  surrender 
and  misery.  He  did  not  sequester  himself  in  mental 
pride,  but  simply  and  sturdily,  through  years  of  conscien- 
tious toil,  he  employed  the  faculties  of  a  strong,  tender, 
gracious  genius  for  the  good  of  his  fellow-creatures. 
The  world  loves  him  because  he  is  worthy  to  be  loved, 
and  because  he  has  lightened  the  burden  of  its  care 
and  augmented  the  sum  of  its  happiness. 

Certain  differences  and  confusions  of  opinion  have 
arisen  from  the  consideration  of  his  well-known  views 
as  to  the  literary  art,  together  with  his  equally  well- 
known  ambition  to  take  and  to  maintain  the  rank  and 
estate  of  a  country  squire.  As  an  artist  he  had  ideals 
that  he  was  never  able  to  fulfil.  As  a  man,  and  one  who 
was  influenced  by  imagination,  taste,  patriotism,  family 
pride,  and  a  profound  belief  in  established  monarchical 
institutions,  it  was  natural  that  he  should  wish  to  found 
a  grand  and  beautiful  home  for  himself  and  his  posterity. 
A  poet  is  not  the  less  a  poet  because  he  thinks  modestly 
of  his  writings  and  practically  knows  and  admits  that 
there  is  something  else  in  the  world  beside  literature  ; 
or  because  he  happens  to  want  his  dinner  and  a  roof  to 
cover  him.     In  trying  to  comprehend  a  great   man,  a 


268  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

good  method  is  to  look  at  his  Ufe  as  a  whole,  and  not  to 
deduce  petty  inferences  from  the  distorted  interpreta- 
tion of  petty  details.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  conduct  of  life, 
like  the  character  out  of  which  it  sprang,  was  simple 
and  natural.  In  all  that  he  did  you  may  perceive  the 
influence  of  imagination  acting  upon  the  finest  reason  ; 
the  involuntary  consciousness  of  reserve  power  ;  habitual 
deference  to  the  voice  of  duty  ;  an  aspiring  and  pictur- 
esque plan  of  artistic  achievement  and  personal  distinc- 
tion ;  and  deep  knowledge  of  the  world.  If  ever  there 
was  a  man  who  lived  to  be  and  not  to  seem,  that  man 
was  Sir  Walter  Scott.  He  made  no  pretensions.  He 
claimed  nothing,  but  he  simply  and  earnestly  earned  all. 
His  means  were  the  oldest  and  the  best ;  self-respect, 
hard  work,  and  fidelity  to  duty.  The  development  of 
his  nature  was  slow,  but  it  was  thorough  and  it  was 
salutary.  He  was  not  hampered  by  precocity  and  he 
was  not  spoiled  by  conceit.  He  acted  according  to  him- 
self, honouring  his  individuality  and  obeying  the  inward 
monitor  of  his  genius.  But,  combined  with  the  delicate 
instinct  of  a  gentleman,  he  had  the  wise  insight,  fore- 
sight, and  patience  of  a  philosopher ;  and  therefore  he 
respected  the  individuality  of  others,  the  established 
facts  of  life,  and  the  settled  conventions  of  society.  His 
mind  was  neither  embittered  by  revolt  nor  sickened  by 
delusion.  Having  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  in  a 
country  in  which  a  right  plan  of  government  prevails, — 
the  idea  of  the  family,  the  idea  of  the  strong  central 
power  at  the  head,  with  all  other  powers  subordinated 
to  it,  —  he  felt  no  impulse  toward  revolution,  no  desire 
to  regulate  all  things  anew ;  and  he  did  not  suffer  per- 
turbation from  the  feverish  sense  of  being  surrounded 


XX 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT  269 


with  uncertainty  and  endangered  by  exposure  to  popular 
caprice.  During  the  period  of  immaturity,  and  notwith- 
standing physical  weakness  and  pain,  his  spirit  was  kept 
equable  and  cheerful,  not  less  by  the  calm  environment 
of  a  permanent  civilisation  than  by  the  clearness  of  his 
perceptions  and  the  sweetness  of  his  temperament.  In 
childhood  and  youth  he  endeared  himself  to  all  who 
came  near  him,  winning  affection  by  inherent  goodness 
and  charm.  In  riper  years  that  sweetness  was  rein- 
forced by  great  sagacity,  which  took  broad  views  of  in- 
dividual and  social  life  ;  so  that  both  by  knowledge  and 
by  impulse  he  was  a  serene  and  happy  man. 

The  quality  that  first  impresses  the  student  of  the 
character  and  the  writings  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  is  truth- 
fulness. He  was  genuine.  Although  a  poet,  he  suf- 
fered no  torment  from  vague  aspirations.  Although 
once,  and  miserably,  a  disappointed  lover,  he  permitted 
no  morbid  repining.  Although  the  most  successful 
author  of  his  time,  he  displayed  no  egotism.  To  the 
end  of  his  days  he  was  frank  and  simple,  —  not  indeed 
sacrificing  the  reticence  of  a  dignified,  self-reliant  nat- 
ure, but  suffering  no  blight  from  success,  and  wearing 
illustrious  honours  with  spontaneous,  unconscious  grace. 
This  truthfulness,  the  consequence  and  the  sign  of 
integrity  and  of  great  breadth  of  intellectual  vision, 
moulded  Sir  Walter  Scott's  ambition  and  stamped  the 
practical  results  of  his  career.  A  striking  illustration 
of  this  is  seen  in  his  first  adventure  in  literature.  The 
poems  originally  sprang  from  the  spontaneous  action  of 
the  poetic  impulse  and  faculty  ;  but  they  were  put  forth 
modestly,  in  order  that  the  author  might  guide  himself 
according  to    the    response    of   the    public   mind.     He 


270  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xx 

knew  that  he  might  fail  as  an  author,  but  for  failure  of 
that  sort,  although  he  was  intensely  ambitious,  he  had 
no  dread.  There  would  always  remain  to  him  the  career 
of  private  duty  and  the  life  of  a  gentleman.  This  view 
of  him  gives  the  key  to  his  character  and  explains  his 
conduct.  Neither  amid  the  experimental  vicissitudes  of 
his  youth,  nor  amid  the  labours,  achievements,  and 
splendid  honours  of  his  manhood,  did  he  ever  place  the 
imagination  above  the  conscience,  or  brilliant  writing 
above  virtuous  living,  or  art  and  fame  above  morality 
and  religion.  "  I  have  been,  perhaps,  the  most  volum- 
inous author  of  the  day,"  he  said,  toward  the  close  of  his 
life;  "and  it  is  a  comfort  to  me  to  think  that  I  have 
tried  to  unsettle  no  man's  faith,  to  corrupt  no  man's 
principles,  and  that  I  have  written  nothing  which,  on 
my  deathbed,  I  should  wish  blotted."  When  at  last  he 
lay  upon  that  deathbed  the  same  thought  animated  and 
sustained  him.  "My  dear,"  he  said,  to  Lockhart,  "be 
a  good  man,  be  virtuous,  be  religious  —  be  a  good  man. 
Nothing  else  will  give  you  any  comfort  when  you  come 
to  lie  here."  The  mind  which  thus  habitually  dwelt 
upon  goodness  as  the  proper  object  of  human  ambition 
and  the  chief  merit  of  human  life  was  not  likely  to 
vaunt  itself  on  its  labours  or  to  indulge  any  save  a 
modest  and  chastened  pride  in  its  achievements. 

And  this  view  of  him  explains  the  affectionate  rever- 
ence with  which  the  memory  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  is 
cherished.  He  was  pre-eminently  a  type  of  the  great- 
ness that  is  associated  with  virtue.  But  his  virtue  was 
not  decorum  and  it  was  not  goodyism.  He  does  not,  with 
Addison,  represent  elegant  austerity ;  and  he  does  not, 
with    Montgomery,    represent    amiable   tameness.     His 


Edinburgh  Castle. 


2/2  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

goodness  was  not  insipid.  It  does  not  humiliate ;  it 
gladdens.  It  is  ardent  with  heart  and  passion.  It  is 
brilliant  with  imagination.  It  is  fragrant  with  taste  and 
grace.  It  is  alert,  active,  and  triumphant  with  splendid 
mental  achievements  and  practical  good  deeds.  And  it 
is  the  goodness  of  a  great  poet, — the  poet  of  natural 
beauty,  of  romantic  legend,  of  adventure,  of  chivalry,  of 
life  in  its  heyday  of  action  and  its  golden  glow  of 
pageantry  and  pleasure.  It  found  expression,  and  it 
wields  invincible  and  immortal  power,  through  an  art 
whereof  the  charm  is  the  magic  of  sunrise  and  sunset, 
the  sombre,  holy  silence  of  mountains,  the  pensive 
solitude  of  dusky  woods,  the  pathos  of  ancient,  ivy- 
mantled  ruins,  and  ocean's  solemn,  everlasting  chant. 
Great  powers  have  arisen  in  English  literature  ;  but  no 
romance  has  hushed  the  voice  of  the  author  of  Wave?'ley, 
and  no  harp  has  drowned  the  music  of  the  Minstrel  of 
the  North. 

The  publication  of  a  new  book  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  is 
a  literary  event  of  great  importance.  The  time  has 
been  when  the  announcement  of  such  a  noveltv  would 
have  roused  the  reading  public  as  with  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet.  That  sensation,  familiar  in  the  early  part  of 
the  present  century,  is  possible  no  more.  Yet  there 
are  thousands  of  persons  all  over  the  world  through 
whose  hearts  the  thought  of  it  sends  a  thrill  of  joy. 
The  illustrious  author  of  Marmion  and  of  Waverley 
passed  away  in  1832  :  and  now  (1890),  at  the  distance  of 
fifty-eight  years,  his  private  Journal  is  made  a  public 
possession.  It  is  the  bestowal  of  a  great  privilege  and 
benefit.  It  is  like  hearing  the  voice  of  a  deeply-loved 
and  long-lamented  friend,  suddenly  speaking  from  beyond 
the  grave. 


XX  SIR    WALTER    SCOTT  273 

In  literary  history  the  position  of  Scott  is  unique.  A 
few  other  authors,  indeed,  might  be  named  toward 
whom  the  general  feeling  was  once  exceedingly  cordial, 
but  in  no  other  case  has  the  feeling  entirely  lasted.  In 
the  case  of  Scott  it  endures  in  undiminished  fervour. 
There  are,  of  course,  persons  to  whom  his  works  are  not 
interesting  and  to  whom  his  personality  is  not  signifi- 
cant. Those  persons  are  the  votaries  of  the  photo- 
graph, who  wish  to  see  upon  the  printed  page  the  same 
sights  that  greet  their  vision  in  the  streets  and  in  the 
houses  to  which  they  are  accustomed.  But  those  prosy 
persons  constitute  only  a  single  class  of  the  public. 
People  in  general  are  impressible  through  the  romantic 
instinct  that  is  a  part  of  human  nature.  To  that  in- 
stinct Scott's  writings  were  addressed,  and  also  to  the 
heart  that  commonly  goes  with  it.  The  spirit  that  re- 
sponds to  his  genius  is  universal  and  perennial.  Caprices 
of  taste  will  reveal  themselves  and  will  vanish  ;  fashions 
will  rise  and  will  fall;  but  these  mutations  touch  nothing 
that  is  elemental  and  they  will  no  more  displace  Scott 
than  they  will  displace  Shakespeare. 

Tho.  Journal  oi  Sir  Walter  Scott,  valuable  for  its  copi- 
ous variety  of  thought,  humour,  anecdote,  and  chronicle, 
is  precious,  most  of  all,  for  the  confirmatory  light  that 
it  casts  upon  the  character  of  its  writer.  It  has  long 
been  known  that  Scott's  nature  was  exceptionally  noble, 
that  his  patience  was  beautiful,  that  his  endurance  was 
heroic.  These  pages  disclose  to  his  votaries  that  he 
surpassed  even  the  highest  ideal  of  him  that  their 
affectionate  partiality  has  formed.  The  period  that  it 
covers  was  that  of  his  adversity  and  decline.  He  began 
it  on  November  20,  1825,  in   his  town  house,  No.   39 


274  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

Castle  street,  Edinburgh,  and  he  continued  it,  with 
almost  daily  entries, — except  for  various  sadly  signifi- 
cant breaks,  after  July  1830, — until  April  16,  1832. 
Five  months  later,  on  September  21,  he  was  dead.  He 
opened  it  with  the  expression  of  a  regret  that  he  had 
not  kept  a  regular  journal  during  the  whole  of  his  life. 
He  had  just  seen  some  chapters  of  Byron's  vigorous, 
breezy,  off-hand  memoranda,  and  the  perusal  of  those 
inspiriting  pages  had  revived  in  his  mind  the  long- 
cherished,  often-deferred  plan  of  keeping  a  diary.  "  I 
have  myself  lost  recollection,"  he  says,  "of  much  that 
was  interesting,  and  I  have  deprived  my  family  and  the 
public  of  some  curious  information  by  not  carrying  this 
resolution  into  effect."  Having  once  begun  the  work  he 
steadily  persevered  in  it,  and  evidently  he  found  a  com- 
fort in  its  companionship.  He  wrote  directly,  and  there- 
fore fluently,  setting  down  exactly  what  was  in  his 
mind,  from  day  to  day  ;  but,  as  he  had  a  well-stored 
and  well-ordered  mind,  he  wrote  with  reason  and  taste, 
seldom  about  petty  matters,  and  never  in  the  strain  of 
insipid  babble  that  egotistical  scribblers  mistake  for  the 
spontaneous  flow  of  nature.  The  facts  that  he  recorded 
were  mostly  material  facts,  and  the  reflections  that  he 
added,  whether  serious  or  humorous,  were  important. 
Sometimes  a  bit  of  history  would  glide  into  the  current 
of  the  chronicle  ;  sometimes  a  fragment  of  a  ballad  ; 
sometimes  an  analytic  sketch  of  character,  subtle,  terse, 
clear,  and  obviously  true  ;  sometimes  a  memory  of  the 
past ;  sometimes  a  portraiture  of  incidents  in  the  pres- 
ent ;  sometimes  a  glimpse  of  political  life,  a  word  about 
painting,  a  reference  to  music  or  the  stage,  an  anecdote, 
a  tale  of  travel,  a  trait  of  social  manners,  a  precept  upon 


XX  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  2/5 

conduct,  or  a  thought  upon  religion  and  the  destiny  of 
mankind.  There  was  no  pretence  of  order  and  there 
was  no  consciousness  of  an  audience  ;  yet  the  Journal 
unconsciously  assumed  a  symmetrical  form  ;  and  largely 
because  of  the  spontaneous  operation  of  its  author's  fine 
literary  instinct  it  became  a  composition  worthy  of  the 
best  readers.  It  is  one  of  the  saddest  and  one  of  the 
strongest  books  ever  written. 

The  original  manuscript  of  this  remarkable  work  is 
contained  in  two  volumes,  bound  in  vellum,  each  volume 
being  furnished  with  a  steel  clasp  that  can  be  fastened. 
The  covers  are  slightly  tarnished  by  time.  The  paper 
is  yellow  with  age.  The  handwriting  is  fine,  cramped, 
and  often  obscure.  "This  hand  of  mine,"  writes  Scott 
(vol.  i.  page  386),  "gets  to  be  like  a  kitten's  scratch,  and 
will  require  much  deciphering,  or,  what  may  be  as  well 
for  the  writer,  cannot  be  deciphered  at  all.  I  am  sure 
I  cannot  read  it  myself."  The  first  volume  is  full  of 
writing ;  the  second  about  half  full.  Toward  the  end 
the  record  is  almost  illegible.  Scott  was  then  at  Rome, 
on  that  melancholy,  mistaken  journey  whereby  it  had 
been  hoped,  but  hoped  in  vain,  that  he  would  recover 
his  health.  The  last  entry  that  he  made  is  this  unfin- 
ished sentence  :  "  We  slept  reasonably,  but  on  the  next 

morning ."     It  is  not  known  that  he  ever  wrote  a 

word  after  that  time.  Lockhart,  who  had  access  to  his 
papers,  made  some  use  of  the  Journal,  in  his  Life  of 
Scott,  which  is  one  of  the  best  biographies  in  our  lan- 
guage ;  but  the  greater  part  of  it  was  withheld  from 
publication  till  a  more  auspicious  time  for  its  perfect 
candour  of  speech.  To  hold  those  volumes  and  to  look 
upon  their  pages,  —  so  eloquent  of  the  great  author's  in- 


276  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xx 

dustry,  so  significant  of  his  character,  so  expressive  of 
his  inmost  soul,  —  was  ahnost  to  touch  the  hand  of  the 
Minstrel  himself,  to  see  his  smile,  and  to  hear  his  voice. 
Now  that  they  have  fulfilled  their  purpose,  and  imparted 
their  inestimable  treasure  to  the  world,  they  are  re- 
stored to  the  ebony  cabinet  at  Abbotsford,  there  to  be 
treasured  among  the  most  precious  relics  of  the  past. 
"It  is  the  saddest  house  in  Scotland,"  their  editor, 
David  Douglas,  said  to  me,  when  we  were  walking 
together  upon  the  Braid  Hills,  "for  to  my  fancy  every 
stone  in  it  is  cemented  with  tears."  Sad  or  glad,  it  is  a 
shrine  to  which  reverent  pilgrims  find  their  way  from 
every  quarter  of  the  earth,  and  it  will  be  honoured  and 
cherished  forever. 

The  great  fame  of  Scott  had  been  acquired  by  the 
time  he  began  to  write  his,  Journal,  and  it  rested  upon  a 
broad  foundation  of  solid  achievement.  He  was  fifty- 
four  years  old,  having  been  born  August  15,  1 771,,  the 
same  year  in  which  Smollett  died.  He  had  been  an 
author  for  about  thirty  years, — his  first  publication,  a 
translation  of  Burger's  Lenore,  having  appeared  in  1796, 
the  same  year  that  was  darkened  by  the  death  of  Robert 
Burns.  His  social  eminence  also  had  been  established. 
He  had  been  sheriff  of  Selkirk  for  twenty-five  years. 
He  had  been  for  twenty  years  a  clerk  of  the  Court  of 
Session.  He  had  been  for  five  years  a  baronet,  having 
received  that  rank  from  King  George  the  Fourth,  who 
always  loved  and  admired  him,  in  1820.  He  had  been 
for  fourteen  years  the  owner  of  Abbotsford,  which  he 
bought  in  181 1,  occupied  in  18 12,  and  completed  in 
1824.  He  was  yet  to  write  Woodstock,  the  six  tales 
called  The  Chronicles  of  the  Canongate,  The  Fair  Maid 


The  Canongate  Tolbooth. 


2/8  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

of  Perth,  Anne  of  Geierstein,  Count  Robert  of  Paris, 
Castle  Dangerous,  the  Life  of  Napoleon,  and  the  lovely 
Stories  from  the  History  of  Scotland.  All  those  works, 
together  with  many  essays  and  reviews,  were  produced 
by  him  between  1825  and  1832,  while  also  he  was  main- 
taining a  considerable  correspondence,  doing  his  official 
duties,  writing  his  Journal,  and  carrying  a  suddenly 
imposed  load  of  debt,  —  which  finally  his  herculean 
labours  paid,  —  amounting  to  ^130,000.  But  between 
1805  and  1817  he  had  written  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel, Ballads  and  Lyrical  Pieces,  Marmion,  The  Lady  of 
the  Lake,  The  Vision  of  Don  Roderick,  Rokeby,  The  Lord 
of  the  Isles,  The  Field  of  Waterloo,  and  Harold  the  Daunt- 
less, —  thus  creating  a  great  and  diversified  body  of 
poetry,^  then  in  a  new  school  and  a  new  style,  in  which, 
although  he  has  often  been  imitated,  he  never  has  been 
equalled.  Between  18 14  and  1825  he  had  likewise  pro- 
duced Waverley,  Guy  I\lannering,  The  Antiquary,  Old 
Mortality,  The  Black  Divarf,  Rob  Roy,  The  Heart  of 
Midlothian,  A  Legend  of  Montrose,  The  Bride  of  Lam- 
viermoor,  Ivanhoe,  The  Monastery,  The  Abbot,  Kenil- 
wortJi,  The  Pirate,  The  Fortunes  of  Nigel,  Peveril  of  the 
Peak,  Quentin  Durivard,  St.  Ronatis  Well,  Redgauntlet, 
The  Betrothed,  and  The  Talisman.  This  vast  body  of 
fiction  was  also  a  new  creation  in  literature,  for  the 
English  novel  prior  to  Scott's  time  was  the  novel  of 
manners,  as  chiefly  represented  by  the  works  of  Rich- 
ardson, Fielding,  and  Smollett.  That  admirable  author. 
Miss  Jane  Porter,  had,  indeed,  written  the  Scottish 
Chiefs  (1809),  in  which  the  note  of  imagination,  as  ap- 
plied to  the  treatment  of  historical  fact  and  character, 
rings  true  and  clear ;  and  probably  that  excellent  book 


XX  SIR   WALTER   SCOTr 


279 


should  be  remembered  as  the  beginning  of  English  his- 
torical romance.  Scott  himself  said  that  it  was  the 
parent,  in  his  mind,  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  But  he 
surpassed  it.  Another  and  perhaps  a  deeper  impulse 
to  the  composition  of  those  novels  was  the  conscious- 
ness, when  Lord  Byron,  by  the  publication  of  CJiilde 
Harold  {the  first  and  second  cantos,  in  1812),  suddenly 
checked  or  eclipsed  his  immediate  popularity  as  a  poet, 
that  it  would  be  necessary  for  him  to  strike  out  a  new 
path.  He  had  begun  Wa%>cj'hy  in  1805  and  thrown  the 
fragment  aside.  He  took  it  up  again  in  18 14,  wrought 
upon  it  for  three  weeks  and  finished  it,  and  so  began 
the  career  of  "the  Great  Unknown."  The  history  of 
literature  presents  scarce  a  comparable  example  of  such 
splendid  industry  sustained  upon  such  a  high  level  of 
endeavour,  animated  by  such  glorious  genius,  and  re- 
sultant in  such  a  noble  and  beneficent  fruition.  The 
life  of  Balzac,  whom  his  example  inspired,  and  who  may 
be  accounted  the  greatest  of  French  writers  since  Vol- 
taire, is  perhaps  the  only  life  that  drifts  suggestively 
into  the  scholar's  memory,  as  he  thinks  of  the  prodigious 
labours  of  Sir  Walter  Scott. 

During  the  days  of  his  prosperity  Scott  maintained 
his  manor  at  Abbotsford  and  his  town-house  in  Edin- 
burgh, and  he  frequently  migrated  from  one  to  the 
other,  dispensing  a  liberal  hospitality  at  both.  He  was 
not  one  of  those  authors  who  think  that  there  is  noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  pen  and  ink.  He  esteemed  hving 
to  be  more  important  than  writing  about  it,  and  the 
development  of  the  soul  to  be  a  grander  result  than 
the  production  of  a  book.  •*  I  hate  an  author  that's 
all  author,"  said  Byron  ;  and  in  this  virtuous  sentiment 


28o  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

Scott  participated.  His  character  and  conduct,  his  un- 
affected modesty  as  to  his  own  works,  his  desire  to 
found  a  great  house  and  to  maintain  a  stately  rank 
among  the  land-owners  of  his  country,  and  as  a  son  of 
chivalry,  have,  for  this  reason,  been  greatly  misunder- 
stood by  dull  people.  They  never,  indeed,  would  have 
found  the  least  fault  with  him  if  he  had  not  become  a 
bankrupt ;  for  the  mouth  of  every  dunce  is  stopped  by 
practical  success.  When  he  got  into  debt,  though,  it 
was  discovered  that  he  ought  to  have  had  a  higher 
ambition  than  the  wish  to  maintain  a  place  among  the 
landed  gentry  of  Scotland  ;  and  even  though  he  ulti- 
mately paid  his  debts,  —  literally  working  himself  to 
death  to  do  it, — he  was  not  forgiven  by  that  class  of 
censors ;  and  to  some  extent  their  chatter  of  paltry  dis- 
paragement still  survives.  While  he  was  rich,  however, 
his  halls  were  thronged  with  fashion,  rank,  and  renown. 
Edinburgh,  still  the  stateliest  city  on  which  the  sun 
looks  down,  must  have  been,  in  the  last  days  of  George 
the  Third,  a  place  of  peculiar  beauty,  opulence,  and 
social  brilliancy.  Scott,  whose  father  was  a  Writer  to 
the  Signet,  and  who  derived  his  descent  from  a  good 
old  Border  family,  the  Scotts  of  Harden,  had,  from  his 
youth,  been  accustomed  to  refined  society  and  elegant 
surroundings.  He  was  born  and  reared  a  gentleman, 
and  a  gentleman  he  never  ceased  to  be.  His  father's 
house  was  No.  25  George  Square,  then  an  aristocratic 
quarter,  now  somewhat  fallen  into  the  sere  and  yellow. 
In  that  house,  as  a  boy,  he  saw  some  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished men  of  the  age.  In  after  years,  when  his 
fortunes  were  ripe  and  his  fame  as  a  poet  had  been 
established,  he  drew  around  himself  a  kindred  class  of 


XX  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  28 1 

associates.  The  record  of  his  life  blazes  with  splendid 
names.  As  a  lad  of  fifteen,  in  1786,  he  saw  Burns, 
then  twenty-seven,  and  in  the  heyday  of  fame ;  and  he 
also  saw  Dugald  Stewart,  seventeen  years  his  senior. 
Lord  Jeffrey  was  his  contemporary  and  friend,  only  two 
years  younger  than  himself.  With  Henry  Mackenzie, 
"the  Addison  of  Scotland,"  —  born  in  the  first  year 
of  the  last  Jacobite  rebellion,  and  therefore  twenty-six 
years  his  senior, —  he  lived  on  terms  of  cordial  friend- 
ship. David  Hume,  who  died  when  Scott  was  but  five 
years  old,  was  one  of  the  great  celebrities  of  his  early 
days ;  and  doubtless  Scott  saw  the  Calton  Hill  when  it 
was,  as  Jane  Porter  remembered  it,  "a  vast  green  slope, 
with  no  other  buildings  breaking  the  line  of  its  smooth 
and  magnificent  brow  but  Hume's  monument  on  one 
part  and  the  astronomical  observatory  on  the  other." 
He  knew  John  Home,  the  author  of  Douglas,  who  was 
his  senior  by  forty-seven  years  ;  and  among  his  miscel- 
laneous prose  writings  there  is  an  effective  review  of 
Home's  works,  which  was  written  for  the  Quarterly, 
in  March  1827.  Among  the  actors  his  especial  friends 
were  John  Philip  Kemble,  Mrs.  Siddons,  the  elder 
Charles  Mathews,  John  Bannister,  and  Daniel  Terry. 
He  knew  Yates  also,  and  he  saw  Miss  Foote,  Fanny 
Kemble,  and  the  Mathews  of  our  day  as  "a  clever, 
rather  forward  lad."  Goethe  was  his  correspondent. 
Byron  was  his  friend  and  fervent  admirer.  Words- 
worth and  Moore  were  among  his  visitors  and  espe- 
cial favourites.  The  aged  Dr.  Adam  Ferguson  was 
one  of  his  intimates.  Hogg,  when  in  trouble,  always 
sought  him,  and  always  was  helped  and  comforted.  He 
was  the  literary  sponsor   for  Thomas   Campbell.     He 


282  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

met  Madame  D'Arblay,  who  was  nineteen  years  his 
senior,  when  she  was  seventy-eight  years  old  ;  and  the 
author  of  Evelina  talked  with  him,  in  the  presence  of 
old  Samuel  Rogers,  then  sixty-three,  about  her  father, 
Dr.  Burney,  and  the  days  of  Dr.  Johnson.  He  was 
honoured  with  the  cordial  regard  of  the  great  Duke  of 
Wellington,  a  contemporary,  being  only  two  years  his 
senior.  He  knew  Croker,  Haydon,  Chantrey,  Land- 
seer,  Sydney  Smith,  and  Theodore  Hook.  He  read 
Vivian  Grey  as  a  new  publication  and  saw  Disraeli 
as  a  beginner.  Coleridge  he  met  and  marvelled  at. 
Mrs.  Coutts,  who  had  been  Harriet  Mellon,  the  singer, 
and  who  became  the  Duchess  of  St.  Albans,  was  a 
favourite  with  him.  He  knew  and  liked  that  caustic 
critic  William  Gifford.  His  relations  with  Sir  Hum- 
phry Davy,  seven  years  his  senior,  were  those  of  kind- 
ness. He  had  a  great  regard  for  Lord  Castlereagh 
and  Lord  Melville.  He  liked  Robert  Southey,  and 
he  cherished  a  deep  affection  for  the  poet  Crabbe, 
who  was  twenty-three  years  older  than  himself,  and 
who  died  in  the  same  year.  Of  Sir  George  Beaumont, 
the  fond  friend  and  wise  patron  of  Wordsworth,  who 
died  in  February  1827,  Scott  wrote  that  he  was  "by 
far  the  most  sensible  and  pleasing  man  I  ever  knew." 
Amid  a  society  such  as  is  indicated  by  those  names 
Scott  passed  his  life.  The  brilliant  days  of  the  Can- 
ongate  indeed  were  gone,  when  all  those  wynds  and 
closes  that  fringe  the  historic  avenue  from  the  Castle 
to  Holyrood  were  as  clean  as  wax,  and  when  the  love- 
liest ladies  of  Scotland  dwelt  amongst  them,  and  were 
borne  in  their  chairs  from  one  house  of  festivity  to 
another.      But    New   street,   once   the   home  of    Lord 


XX  SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  283 

Karnes,  still  retained  some  touch  of  its  ancient  finery. 
St.  John  street,  where  once  lived  Lord  Monboddo  and 
his  beautiful  daughter,  Miss  Burnet  (immortalised  by 
Burns),  and  where  (at  No.  10)  Ballantyne  often  con- 
voked admirers  of  the  unknown  author  of  IVaverley,  was 
still  a  cleanly  place.  Alison  Square,  George  Square, 
Buccleuch  Place,  and  kindred  quarters  were  still  ten- 
anted by  the  polished  classes  of  the  stately,  old-time 
society  of  Edinburgh.  The  movement  northward  had 
begun,  but  as  yet  it  was  inconsiderable.  In  those  old 
drawing-rooms  Scott  was  an  habitual  visitor,  as  also 
he  was  in  many  of  the  contiguous  county  manors,  — 
in  Seton  House,  Pinkie  House,  Blackford,  Ravelstone, 
Craigcrook,  and  Caroline  Park,  and  wherever  else  the 
intellect,  beauty,  rank,  and  fashion  of  the  Scottish  capi- 
tal assembled  ;  and  it  is  certain  that  after  his  marriage, 
in  December  1797,  with  Miss  Charlotte  Margaret  Car- 
penter, the  scenes  of  hospitality  and  of  elegant  festival 
were  numerous  and  gay,  and  were  peopled  with  all  that 
was  brightest  in  the  ancient  city,  at  first  beneath  his 
roof-tree  in  Castle  street  and  later  beneath  his  turrets 
of  Abbotsford. 

There  came  a  time,  however,  when  the  fabric  of 
Scott's  fortunes  was  to  be  shattered  and  his  imperial 
genius  bowed  into  the  dust.  He  had  long  been  a  busi- 
ness associate  with  Constable,  his  publisher,  and  also 
with  Ballantyne,  his  printer.  The  publishing  business 
failed  and  they  were  ruined  together.  It  has  long  been 
customary  to  place  the  blame  for  that  catastrophe  on 
Constable  alone.  Mr.  Douglas,  who  has  edited  the 
Journal  with  characteristic  discretion  and  taste,  records 
his  opinion  that  "the  three  parties,  printer,  publisher, 


284  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 


CHAP. 


and  author,  were  equal  sharers  in  the  imprudences  that 
led  to  the  disaster;"  and  he  directs  attention  to  the 
fact  that  the  charge  that  Constable  ruined  Scott  was 
not  made  during  the  lifetime  of  either.  It  matters 
little  now  in  what  way  the  ruin  was  induced.  Mis- 
management caused  it,  and  not  misdeed.  There  was  a 
blunder,  but  there  was  no  fraud.  The  honour  of  all  the 
men  concerned  stands  vindicated  before  the  world. 
Moreover,  the  loss  was  retrieved  and  the  debt  was  paid, 
—  Scott's  share  of  it  in  full  :  the  other  shares  in  part. 
It  is  to  the  period  of  this  ordeal  that  Scott's  Jourtial 
mainly  relates.  Great  though  he  had  been  in  prosperity, 
he  was  to  show  himself  greater  amid  the  storms  of  dis- 
aster and  affliction.  The  earlier  pages  of  the  diary  are 
cheerful,  vigorous,  and  confident.  The  mind  of  the 
writer  is  in  no  alarm.  Presently  the  sky  changes  and 
the  tempest  breaks  ;  and  from  that  time  onward  the 
reader  beholds  a  spectacle,  of  indomitable  will,  calm 
resolution,  inflexible  purpose,  patient  endurance,  stead- 
fast industry,  and  productive  genius,  that  is  sublime. 
Many  facts  of  living  interest  and  many  gems  of  subtle 
thought  and  happy  phrase  are  found  in  his  daily  record. 
The  observations  on  immortality  are  in  a  fine  strain. 
The  remarks  on  music,  on  dramatic  poetry,  on  the  oper- 
ation of  the  mental  faculties,  on  painting,  and  on  na- 
tional characteristics,  are  freighted  with  suggestive 
thought.  But  the  noble  presence  of  the  man  over- 
shadows even  his  best  words.  He  lost  his  fortune  in 
December  1825.  His  wife  died  in  May  1826.  On  the 
pages  that  immediately  follow  his  note  of  this  bereave- 
ment Scott  has  written  occasional  words  that  no  one 
can  read  unmoved,  and  that  no  one  who  has  suffered 
can  read  without  a  pang  that  is  deeper  than  tears. 


XX 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  285 


But  his  spirit  was  slow  to  break.  "  Duty  to  God  and 
to  my  children,"  he  said,  "  must  teach  me  patience." 
Once  he  speaks  of  "  the  loneliness  of  these  watches  of 
the  night."  Not  until  his  debts  were  paid  and  his 
duties  fulfilled  would  that  great  soul  yield.  "  I  may 
be  bringing  on  some  serious  disease,"  he  remarks,  "by 
working  thus  hard  ;  if  I  had  once  justice  done  to  other 
folks,  I  do  not  much  care,  only  I  would  not  like  to  suffer 
long  pain."  A  little  later  the  old  spirit  shows  itself  : 
"  I  do  not  like  to  have  it  thought  that  there  is  any  way 
in  which  I  can  be  beaten.  .  .  .  Let  us  use  the  time 
and  faculties  which  God  has  left  us,  and  trust  futurity 
to  His  guidance.  ...  I  want  to  finish  my  task, 
and  then  good-night.  I  will  never  relax  my  labour  in 
these  affairs  either  for  fear  of  pain  or  love  of  life.  I  will 
die  a  free  man,  if  hard  working  will  do  it.  .  .  .  My 
spirits  are  neither  low  nor  high — grave,  I  think,  and 
quiet  —  a  complete  twilight  of  the  mind.  .  .  .  God 
help — but  rather  God  bless — man  must  help  himself. 
.  .  .  The  best  is,  the  long  halt  will  arrive  at  last  and 
cure  all.  ...  It  is  my  dogged  humour  to  yield 
little  to  external  circumstances.  ...  I  shall  never 
see  the  three-score  and  ten,  and  shall  be  summed  up  at 
a  discount.  No  help  for  it,  and  no  matter  either."  In 
the  mood  of  mingled  submission  and  resolve  denoted  by 
these  sentences  (which  occur  at  long  intervals  in  the 
story),  he  wrought  at  his  task  until  it  was  finished. 
By  Woodstock  he  earned  ^8000  ;  by  the  Life  of  Na- 
poleon jQiSyOOO;  by  other  writings  still  other  sums. 
The  details  of  his  toil  appear  day  by  day  in  these  simple 
pages,  tragic  through  all  their  simplicity.  He  was  a 
heart-broken  man  from  the  hour  when  his  wife  died,  but 


286  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xx 

he  sustained  himself  by  force  of  will  and  sense  of  honour/ 
and  he  endured  and  worked  till  the  last,  without  a  mur- 
mur ;  and  when  he  had  done  his  task  he  laid  down  his 
pen  and  so  ended. 

The  lesson  of  Scott' s/ourna/  is  the  most  important 
lesson  that  "experience  can  teach.  It  is  taught  in  two 
words :  honour  and  duty.  Nothing  is  more  obvious,  from 
the  nature  and  environment  and  the  consequent  condi- 
tion of  the  human  race,  than  the  fact  that  this  world  is 
not,  and  was  not  intended  to  be,  a  place  of  settled  hap- 
piness. All  human  beings  have,  troubles,  and  as  the 
years  pass  away  those  troubles  become  more  numerous, 
more  heavy,  and  more  hard  to  bear.  The  ordeal  through 
which  humanity  is  passing  is  an  ordeal  of  discipline  for 
spiritual  development.  To  l^ve  in  honour,  to  labour  with 
steadfast  industry,  and  to  endure  with  cheerful  patience 
is  to  be  victorious.  Whatever  in  literature  will  illus- 
trate this  doctrine,  and  whatever  in  human  example  will 
commend  and  enforce  it,  is  of  transcendent  value ;  and 
that  value  is  inherent  in  the  example  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott. 


CHAPTER    XXI 


ELEGIAC    MEMORIALS    IN    EDINBURGH 


NE  denotement,  among  many,  of  a  genial 
change,  a  relaxation  of  the  old  ecclesias- 
tical austerity  long  prevalent  in  Scotland, 
is  perceptible  in  the  lighter  character  of 
her  modern  sepulchral  monuments.  In 
the  old  churchyard  of  St.  Michael,  at  Dumfries,  the 
burial-place  of  Burns,  there  is  a  hideous,  dismal  mass  of 
misshapen,  weather-beaten  masonry,  the  mere  aspect  of 
which,  before  any  of  its  gruesome  inscriptions  are  read, 
is  a  rebuke  to  hope  and  an  alarm  to  despair.  Thus  the 
religionists  of  old  tried  to  make  death  terrible.  Much  of 
this  same  6rder  of  abhorrent  architecture,  the  ponderous 
exponent  of  immitigable  woe,  may  be  found  in  the  old 
Grayfriars  churchyard  in  Edinburgh,  and  in  that  of  the 
Canongate.  But  the  pilgrim  to  the  Dean  cemetery  and# 
the  Warriston,  both  comparatively  modern,  and  beauti- 
fully situated  at  different  points  on  the  north  side  of  the 
Water  of  Leith,  finds  them  adorned  with  every  grace 
that  can  hallow  the  repose  of  tfie  dead,  or  soothe  the 
grief,  or  mitigate  the  fear,  or  soften  the  bitter  resentment 
of  the  living.     Hope,  and  not  despsprf,,is  the  spirit  of  the 

287 


288  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

new  epoch  in  religion,  and  it  is  hope  not  merely  for  a 
sect  but  for  all  mankind. 

The  mere  physical  loveliness  of  those  cemeteries  may 
well  tempt  you  to  explore  them,  but  no  one  will  neglect 
them  who  cares  for  the  storied  associations  of  the  past. 
Walking  in  the  Dean,  on  an  afternoon  half-cloudy  and 
half-bright,  when  the  large  trees  that  guard  its  western 
limit  and  all  the  masses  of  foliage  in  the  dark  ravine  of 
the  Leith  were  softly  rustling  in  the  balmy  summer 
wind,  while  overhead  and  far  around  the  solemn  cawing 
of  the  rooks  mingled  sleepily  with  the  twitter  of  the 
sparrows,  I  thought,  as  I  paced  the  sunlit  aisles,  that 
Nature  could  nowhere  show  a  scene  of  sweeter  peace. 
In  this  gentle  solitude  has  been  laid  to  its  everlast- 
ing rest  all  that  could  die  of  some  of  the  greatest 
leaders  of  thought  in  modern  Scotland.  It  was  no 
common  experience  to  muse  beside  the  tomb  of  Francis 
Jeffrey,  the  once  formidable  Lord  Jeffrey  of  The  Edin- 
burgh Revieiv.  He  lies  buried  near  the  great  wall  on 
the  west  side  of  the  Dean  cemetery,  with  his  wife  beside 
him.  A  flat,  oblong  stone  tomb,  imposed  upon  a  large 
stone  pedestal  and  overshadowed  with  tall  trees,  marks 
the  place,  on  one  side  of  which  is  written  that  once- 
famous  and  dreaded  name,  now  spoken  with  indifference 
or  not  spoken  at  all :  "  Francis  Jeffrey.  Born  Oct.  23, 
1773.  Died  Jan.  25,  1850."  On  the  end  of  the  tomb 
is  a  medallion  portrait  of  Jeffrey,  in  bronze.  It  is  a 
profile,  and  it  shows  a  symmetrical  head,  a  handsome 
face,  severe,  refined,  frigid,  and  altogether  it  is  the  de- 
notement of  a  personality  remarkable  for  the  faculty  of 
taste  and  the  instinct  of  decorum,  though  not  for  creative 
power.     Close  by  Lord  Jeffrey,  a  little  to  the  south,  are 


XXI  ELEGIAC   MEMORIALS   IN   EDINBURGH  289 

buried  Sir  Archibald  Alison,  the  historian  of  Europe, 
and  Henry  Cockburn,  the  great  jurist.  Combe,  the 
philosopher,  rests  near  the  south  front  of  the  wall  that 
bisects  this  cemetery  from  east  to  west.  Not  far  from 
the  memorials  of  these  famous  persons  is  a  shaft  of 
honour  to  Lieutenant  John  Irving,  who  was  one  of  the 
companions  of  Sir  John  Franklin,  and  who  perished 
amid  the  Polar  ice  in  King  William's  Land,  in  1848-49. 
In  another  part  of  the  ground  a  tall  cross  commem- 
orates David  Scott,  the  painter  [1806- 1849],  presenting 
a  superb  effigy  of  his  head,  in  one  of  the  most  animated 
pieces  of  bronze  that  have  copied  human  life.  Against 
the  eastern  wall,  on  the  terrace  overlooking  the  ravine 
and  the  rapid  Water  of  Leith,  stands  the  tombstone  of 
John  Blackwood,  "  Editor  of  Blackzvoocf  s  Magazine  for 
thirty-three  years :  Died  at  Strathtyrum,  29th  Oct. 
1879.  Age  60."  This  inscription,  cut  upon  a  broad 
white  marble,  with  scroll-work  at  the  base,  and  set 
against  the  wall,  is  surmounted  with  a  coat  of  arms,  in 
gray  stone,  bearing  the  motto,  "Per  vias  rectas."  Many 
other  eminent  names  may  be  read  in  this  garden  of 
death  ;  but  most  interesting  of  all,  and  those  that  most 
of  all  I  sought,  are  the  names  of  Wilson  and  Aytoun. 
Those  worthies  were  buried  close  together,  almost  in 
the  centre  of  the  cemetery.  The  grave  of  the  great 
"  Christopher  North "  is  marked  by  a  simple  shaft 
of  Aberdeen  granite,  beneath  a  tree,  and  it  bears  only 
this  inscription:  "John  Wilson,  Professor  of  Moral 
Philosophy.  Born  i8th  of  May,  1785.  Died  3d  April, 
1854."  Far  more  elaborate  is  the  white  marble  monu- 
ment,—  a  square  tomb,  with  carvings  of  recessed  Gothic 
windows  on  its  sides,  supporting  a  tall  cross,  —  erected 

T 


290  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

to  the  memory  of  Aytoun  and  of  his  wife,  who  was 
Wilson's  daughter.  The  inscriptions  tell  their  sufficient 
story :  "  Jane  Emily  Wilson,  beloved  wife  of  William 
Edmonstoune  Aytoun.  Obiit  15  April,  1859."  "Here 
is  laid  to  rest  William  Edmonstoune  Aytoun,  D.C.L., 
Oxon.,  Professor  of  Rhetoric  and  English  Literature  in 
the  University  of  Edinburgh.  Sheriff  of  Orkney  and 
Zetland.  Born  at  Edinburgh,  21st  June,  18 13.  Died 
at  Blackhills,  Elgin,  4th  August,  1865.  'Waiting  for 
the  coming  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.'  i  Cor.  i.  7."  So 
they  sleep,  the  poets,  wits,  and  scholars  that  were  once 
so  bright  in  genius,  so  gay  in  spirit,  so  splendid  in 
achievement,  so  vigorous  in  affluent  and  brilliant  life ! 
It  is  the  old  story,  and  it  teaches  the  old  moral. 

Warriston,  not  more  beautiful  than  Dean,  is  perhaps 
more  beautiful  in  situation  ;  certainly  it  commands  a 
more  beautiful  prospect.  The  traveller  will  visit  War- 
riston for  the  sake  of  Alexander  Smith,  — rememberinsf 
the  Life  Drama,  the  City  Poems,  Ediuin  of  Deira,  Al- 
fred Hagarfs  Household,  and  A  Summer  i}i  Skye.  The 
poet  lies  in  the  northeast  corner  of  the  ground,  at  the 
foot  of  a  large  lona  cross,  which  is  bowered  by  a 
chestnut-tree.  Above  him  the  green  sod  is  like  a  carpet 
of  satin.  The  cross  is  thickly  carved  with  laurel,  thistle, 
and  holly,  and  it  bears  upon  its  front  the  face  of  the 
poet,  in  bronze,  and  the  harp  that  betokens  his  art.  It 
is  a  bearded  face,  having  small,  refined  features,  a 
slightly  pouted,  sensitive  mouth,  and  being  indicative 
more  of  nervous  sensibility  than  of  rugged  strength. 
The  inscription  gives  simply  his  name  and  dates : 
"  Alexander  Smith,  Poet  and  Essayist.  Born  at  Kilmar- 
nock, 31st  December,  1829.     Died  at  Wardie,  5th  Janu- 


XXI  ELEGIAC   MEMORIALS   IN   EDINBURGH 


291 


ary,  1867.  Erected  by  some  of  his  personal  Friends." 
Standing  by  his  grave,  at  the  foot  of  this  cross,  you  can 
gaze  straight  away  southward  to  Arthur's  Seat,  and  be- 
hold the  whole  line  of  imperial  Edinburgh  at  a  glance, 
from  the  Calton  Hill  to  the  Castle.  It  is  such  a  spot  as 
he  would  have  chosen  for  his  sepulchre, — face  to  face 
with  the  city  that  he  dearly  loved.  Near  him  on  the 
east  wall  appears  a  large  slab  of  Aberdeen  granite, 
to  mark  the  grave  of  still  another  Scottish  worthy, 
"James  Ballantine,  Poet.  Born  nth  June,  1808.  Died 
i8th  Dec,  1877."  And  midway  along  the  slope  of  the 
northern  terrace,  a  little  eastward  of  the  chapel,  under 
a  freestone  monument  bearing  the  butterfly  that  is 
Nature's  symbol  of  immortality,  you  will  see  the  grave 
of  "Sir  James  Young  Simpson,  Bart.,  M.D.,  D.C.L. 
Born  1811.  Died  1870."  And  if  you  are  weary  of 
thinking  about  the  evanescence  of  the  poets,  you  can  re- 
flect that  there  was  no  exemption  from  the  common  lot 
even  for  one  of  the  greatest  physical  benefactors  of  the 
human  race. 

The  oldest  and  the  most  venerable  and  mysterious  of 
the  cemeteries  of  Edinburgh  is  that  of  the  Grayfriars. 
Irregular  in  shape  and  uneven  in  surface,  it  encircles  its 
famous  old  church,  in  the  haunted  neighbourhood  of  the 
West  Bow,  and  is  itself  hemmed  in  with  many  build- 
ings. More  than  four  centuries  ago  this  was  the  garden 
of  the  Monastery  of  the  Grayfriars,  founded  by  James 
the  First,  of  Scotland,  and  thus  it  gets  its  name.  The 
monastery  disappeared  long  ago :  the  garden  was  turned 
into  a  graveyard  in  the  time  of  Queen  Mary  Stuart,  and 
by  her  order.  The  building,  called  the  Old  Church, 
dates  back  to  16 12,  but  it  was  burnt  in  1845   and  sub- 


Grayfiiars    Churchyard. 


CHAP.  XXI       ELEGIAC   MEMORIALS   IN   EDINBURGH  293 

sequeiitly  restored.  Here  the  National  Covenant  was 
subscribed,  1638,  by  the  lords  and  by  the  people,  and  in 
this  doubly  consecrated  ground  are  laid  the  remains  of 
many  of  those  heroic  Covenanters  who  subsequently 
suffered  death  for  conscience  and  their  creed.  There 
is  a  large  book  of  The  EpitapJis  and  Monumental  Inscrip- 
tions in  Grayfriars  Churehyard,  made  by  James  Brown, 
keeper  of  the  grounds,  and  published  in  1867.  That 
record  does  not  pretend  to  be  complete,  and  yet  it 
mentions  no  less  than  two  thousand  two  hundred  and 
seventy-one  persons  who  are  sepulchred  in  this  place. 
Among  those  sleepers  are  Duncan  Forbes,  of  Culloden  ; 
Robert  Mylne,  who  built  a  part  of  Holyrood  Palace  ; 
Sir  George  Mackenzie,  the  persecutor  of  the  Covenan- 
ters ;  Carstairs,  the  adviser  of  King  William  the  Third  ; 
Sir  Adam  Ferguson ;  Henry  Mackenzie  ;  Robertson  and 
Tytler,  the  historians;  Sir  Walter  Scott's  father;  and 
several  of  the  relatives  of  Mrs.  Siddons.  Captain  John 
Porteous,  who  was  hanged  in  the  Grass-market,  by 
riotous  citizens  of  Edinburgh,  on  the  night  of  Sep- 
tember 7,  1736,  and  whose  story  is  so  vividly  told  in 
The  Heart  of  MidlotJiian,  was  buried  in  the  Grayfriars 
churchyard,  "three  dble.  pace  from  the  S.  corner  Chal- 
mers' tomb" — 1736.  James  Brown's  record  of  the 
churchyard  contains  various  particulars,  quoted  from 
the  old  church  register.  Of  William  Robertson,  minis- 
ter of  the  parish,  who  died  in  1745,  we  read  that  he 
"lies  near  the  tree  next  Blackwood's  ground."  "Mr. 
Allan  Ramsay,"  says  the  same  quaint  chronicle,  "lies  5 
dble.  paces  southwest  the  blew  stone  :  A  poet :  old  age  : 
Buried  9th  January  1758."  Christian  Ross,  his  wife, 
who  preceded  the  aged  bard  by  fifteen  years,  lies  in  the 


294  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

same  grave.  Sir  Walter  Scott's  father  was  laid  there 
on  April  i8,  1799,  and  his  daughter  Anne  was  placed 
beside  him  in  1801.  In  a  letter  addressed  to  his  brother 
Thomas,  in  1819,  Sir  Walter  wrote  :  "When  poor  Jack 
was  buried  in  the  Grayfriars  churchyard,  where  my 
father  and  Anne  lie,  I  thought  their  graves  more  en- 
croached upon  than  I  liked  to  witness."  The  remains 
of  the  Regent  Morton  were,  it  is  said,  wrapped  in  a  cloak 
and  secretly  buried  there,  at  night, — June  2,  1581,  im- 
mediately after  his  execution,  on  that  day,  —  low  down 
toward  the  northern  wall.  The  supposed  grave  of  the 
scholar,  historian,  teacher,  and  superb  Latin  poet  George 
Buchanan  ["the  elegant  Buchanan,"  Dr.  Johnson  calls 
him],  is  not  distant  from  this  spot;  and  in  the  old  church 
may  be  seen  a  beautiful  window,  a  triple  lancet,  in  the 
south  aisle,  placed  there  to  commemorate  that  illustrious 
author. 

Hugh  Miller  and  Dr.  Chalmers  w^ere  laid  in  the 
Grange  cemetery,  which  is  in  the  southern  part  of  the 
city,  near  Morningside.  Adam  Smith  is  commemorated 
by  a  heavy  piece  of  masonry,  ov^er  his  dust,  at  the  south 
end  of  the  Canongate  churchyard,  and  Dugald  Stewart 
by  a  ponderous  tomb  at  the  north  end  of  it,  where  he 
was  buried,  as  also  bv  the  monument  on  the  Calton 
Hill.  It  is  to  see  Ferguson's  gravestone,  however,  that 
the  pilgrim  explores  the  Canongate  churchyard,  —  and 
a  dreary  place  it  is  for  the  last  rest  of  a  poet.  Robert 
Burns  placed  the  stone,  and  on  the  back  of  it  is  in- 
scribed :  "  By  special  grant  of  the  managers  to  Robert 
Burns,  who  erected  this  stone,  this  burial-place  is  to 
remain  for  ever  sacred  to  Robert  Ferguson."  That 
poet  was  born  September  5,  175 1,  and  died  October  16, 


XXI  ELEGIAC   MEMORIALS   IN   EDINBURGH  295 

1774.  These  lines,  written  by  Burns,  with  an  inten- 
tional reminiscence  of  Gray,  whose  Elegy  he  fervently 
admired,  are  his  epitaph  : 

"  No  sculptured  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
No  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust  — 
This  simple  stone  directs  pale  Scotia's  way 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  Poet's  dust." 

One  of  the  greatest  minds  of  Scotland,  and  indeed 
of  the  world,  was  David  Hume,  who  could  think  more 
clearly  and  express  his  thoughts  more  precisely  and 
cogently  upon  great  subjects  than  almost  any  meta- 
physician of  our  English-speaking  race.  His  tomb  is 
in  the  old  Calton  cemetery,  close  by  the  prison,  a  grim 
Roman  tower,  predominant  over  the  Waverley  Vale  and 
visible  from  every  part  of  it.  This  structure  is  open  to 
the  sky,  and  within  it  and  close  around  its  interior  edge, 
nine  melancholy  bushes  are  making  a  forlorn  effort  to 
grow,  in  the  stony  soil  that  covers  the  great  historian's 
dust.  There  is  an  urn  above  the  door  of  this  mauso- 
leum and  surmounting  the  urn  is  this  inscription  : 
"David  Hume.  Born  April  26th,  1711.  Died  August 
25th,  1776.  Erected  in  memory  of  him  in  1778."  In 
another  part  of  this  ground  you  may  find  the  sepulchre 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's  friend  and  publisher,  Archibald 
Constable,  "born  24th  February  1774,  died  21st  July 
1827."  Several  priests  were  roaming  over  the  ceme- 
tery when  I  saw  it,  making  its  dismal  aspect  still  more 
dismal  by  that  rook-like,  unctuous,  furtive  aspect  which 
oftens  marks  the  ecclesiastic  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
church. 

Another  great  writer,  Thomas  de  Quincey,  is  buried 
in  the  old  churchyard  of  the  West  church,  that  lies  in 


296  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xxi 

the  valley  just  beneath  the  west  front  of  the  crag  of 
Edinburgh  Castle.  I  went  to  that  spot  on  a  bright  and 
lovely  autumn  evening.  The  place  was  deserted,  except 
for  the  presence  of  a  gardener,  to  whom  I  made  my 
request  that  he  would  guide  me  to  the  grave  of  De 
Ouincey.  It  is  an  inconspicuous  place,  marked  by  a 
simple  slab  of  dark  stone,  set  against  the  wall,  in  an 
angle  of  the  enclosure,  on  a  slight  acclivity.  As  you 
look  upward  from  this  spot  you  see  the  grim,  magnifi- 
cent castle,  frowning  on  its  precipitous  height.  The 
grave  was  covered  thick  with  grass,  and  in  a  narrow 
trench  of  earth,  cut  in  the  sod  around  it,  many  pansies 
and  marigolds  were  in  bloom.  Upon  the  gravestone 
is  written :  "  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Thomas  de 
Quincey,  who  was  born  at  Greenhay,  near  Manchester, 
August  15th,  1785,  and  died  in  Edinburgh,  December 
8th,  1859.  And  of  Margaret,  his  wife,  who  died  August 
7,  1837."  Just  over  the  honoured  head  of  the  illustri- 
ous sleeper  were  two  white  daisies  peeping  through  the 
green  ;  one  of  which  I  thought  it  not  a  sin  to  take  away, 
for  it  is  the  symbol  at  once  of  peace  and  hope,  and 
therefore  a  sufficient  embodiment  of  the  best  that 
death  can  teach. 


CHAPTER    XXII 


SCOTTISH    PICTURES 


fTRONACHLACHER,  Loch  Katrine, 
September  i,  1890.  —  No  one  needs  to  be 
told  that  the  Forth  bridge  is  a  wonder. 
All  the  world  knows  it,  and  knows  that  the 
art  of  the  engineer  has  here  achieved  a 
masterpiece.  The  bridge  is  not  beautiful,  whether 
viewed  from  afar  or  close  at  hand.  The  gazer  can  see 
it,  or  some  part  of  it,  from  every  height  in  Edinburgh. 
It  is  visible  from  the  Calton  Hill,  from  the  Nelson  col- 
umn, from  the  Scott  monument,  from  the  ramparts 
of  the  Castle,  from  Salisbury  Crags,  from  the  Braid 
Hills,  and  of  course  from  the  eminence  of  Arthur's 
Seat.  Other  objects  of  interest  there  are  which  seek 
the  blissful  shade,  but  the  Forth  bridge  is  an  object  of 
interest  that  insists  upon  being  seen.  The  visitor  to 
the  shores  of  the  Forth  need  not  mount  any  height  in 
order  to  perceive  it,  for  all  along  those  shores,  from 
Dirleton  to  Leith  and  from  Elie  to  Burntisland,  it  fre- 
quently comes  into  the  picture.  While,  however,  it  is 
not  beautiful,  it  impresses  the  observer  with  a  sense  of 
colossal  magnificence.     It  is  a  more  triumphant  struct- 

297 


^ 


lui^Jn^iLj/i^M 


CHAP.  XXII  SCOTTISH   PICTURES  299 

ure  even  than  the  Eiffel  tower,  and  it  predominates  over 
the  vision  and  the  imagination  by  the  same  audacity  of 
purpose  and  the  same  consummate  fulfilment  which 
mark  that  other  marvel  and  establish  it  in  universal  ad- 
miration. Crossing  the  bridge  early  this  morning,  I 
deeply  felt  its  superb  potentiality,  and  was  charmed 
likewise  with  its  pictorial  effect.  That  effect  is  no 
doubt  due  in  part  to  its  accessories.  Both  ways  the 
broad  expanse  of  the  Forth  was  visible  for  many  miles. 
It  was  a  still  morning,  overcast  and  mournful.  There 
was  a  light  breeze  from  the  southeast,  the  air  at  that 
elevation  being  as  sweet  as  new  milk.  Beneath,  far 
down,  the  surface  of  the  steel-gray  water  was  wrinkled 
like  the  scaly  back  of  a  fish.  Midway  a  little  island 
rears  its  spine  of  rock  out  of  the  stream.  Westward  at 
some  distance  rises  a  crag,  on  which  is  a  tiny  lighthouse- 
tower,  painted  red.  The  long,  graceful  stone  piers  that 
stretch  into  the  Forth  at  this  point, — breakwaters 
to  form  a  harbour,  —  and  all  the  little  gray  houses  of 
Queensferry,  Inverkeithing,  and  the  adjacent  villages 
looked  like  the  toy  buildings  which  are  the  playthings 
of  children.  A  steamboat  was  making  her  way  up  the 
river,  while  near  the  shores  were  many  small  boats 
swinging  at  their  moorings,  for  the  business  of  the 
day  was  not  yet  begun.  Over  this  scene  the  scarce 
risen  sun,  much  obscured  by  dull  clouds,  cast  a  faint 
rosy  light,  and  even  while  the  picture  was  at  its  best  we 
glided  away  from  it  into  the  pleasant  land  of  Fife. 

In  former  days  the  traveller  to  Stirling  commonly 
went  by  the  way  of  Linlithgow,  which  is  the  place 
where  Mary  Stuart  was  born,  and  he  was  all  the  more 
prompted  to  think  of  that  enchanting  woman  because 


300 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


he  usually  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  ruins  of  Niddry 
Castle,  one  of  the  houses  of  her  faithful  Lord  Seton, 
at  which  she  rested,  on  the  romantic  and  memorable 
occasion  of  her  flight  from  Loch  Leven.  Now,  since 
the   Forth   bridge   has    been    opened,   the    most    direct 


Dunfermline  Abbey. 

route  to  Stirling  is  by  Dunfermline.  And  this  is  a 
gain,  for  Dunfermline  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
places  in  Scotland.  That  Malcolm  of  whom  we  catch 
a  glimpse  when  we  see  a  representation  of  Shakespeare's 


XXII  SCOniSIi   PICTURES  30I 

tragedy  of  Macbeth  had  a  royal  castle  there  nine  hun- 
dred years  ago,  of  which  a  fragment  still  remains  ;  and 
on  a  slope  of  the  coast,  a  few  miles  west  from  Dunferm- 
line, the  vigilant  antiquarian  has  fixed  the  sight  of  Mac- 
duff's castle,  where  Lady  Macduff  and  her  children  were 
slaughtered  by  the  tyrant.  Behind  the  ancient  church  at 
Dunfermline,  the  church  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  —  devas- 
tated at  the  Reformation,  but  since  restored,  —  you  may 
see  the  tomb  of  Malcolm  and  of  Margaret,  his  queen,  — 
an  angel  among  women  when  she  lived,  and  worthy  to  be 
remembered  now  as  the  saint  that  her  church  has  made 
her.  The  body  of  Margaret,  who  died  at  Edinburgh 
Castle,  November  16,  1093,  was  secretly  and  hastily  con- 
veyed to  Dunfermline,  and  there  buried,  —  Edinburgh 
Castle,  The  Maiden  Castle  it  was  then  called,  being  as- 
sailed by  her  husband's  brother,  Donald  Bane.  The 
remains  of  that  noble  and  devoted  woman,  however,  do 
not  rest  in  that  tomb,  for  long  afterward,  at  the  Reforma- 
tion, they  were  taken  away,  and  after  various  wander- 
ings were  enshrined  at  the  chvuxh  of  St.  Lawrence  in 
the  Escurial.  I  had  often  stood  in  the  little  chapel  that 
this  good  queen  founded  in  Edinburgh  Castle,  —  a  place 
which  they  desecrate  now,  by  using  it  as  a  shop  for  the 
sale  of  pictures  and  memorial  trinkets,  —  and  I  was 
soon  to  stand  in  the  ruins  of  St.  Oran's  chapel,  in  far 
lona,  which  also  was  built  by  her ;  and  so  it  was  with 
many  reverent  thoughts  of  an  exalted  soul  and  a  benefi- 
cent life  that  I  saw  the  great  dark  tower  of  Dunferm- 
line church  vanish  in  the  distance.  At  Stirling,  the 
rain,  which  had  long  been  lowering,  came  down  in 
floods,  and  after  that  for  many  hours  there  was  genuine 
Scotch  weather  and  a  copious  abundance  of  it.     This 


302  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap,  xxii 

also  is  an  experience,  and,  although  that  superb  drive 
over  the  mountain  from  Aberfoyle  to  Loch  Katrine 
was  marred  by  the  wet,  I  was  well  pleased  to  see  the 
Trosach  country  in  storm,  which  I  had  before  seen  in 
sunshine.  It  is  a  land  of  infinite  variety,  and  lovely 
even  in  tempest.  The  majesty  of  the  rocky  heights; 
the  bleak  and  barren  loneliness  of  the  treeless  hills  ; 
the  many  thread-like  waterfalls  which,  seen  afar  off, 
are  like  rivulets  of  silver  frozen  into  stillness  on  the 
mountain-sides ;  the  occasional  apparition  of  precipi- 
tous peaks,  over  which  presently  are  driven  the  white 
streamers  of  the  mist,  —  all  these  are  striking  elements 
of  a  scene  which  blends  into  the  perfection  of  grace 
the  qualities  of  gentle  beauty  and  wild  romance.  Ben 
Lomond  in  the  west  and  Ben  Venue  and  Ben  Ledi  in 
the  north  were  indistinct,  and  so  was  Ben  A'an  in  its 
nearer  cloud ;  but  a  brisk  wind  had  swept  the  mists 
from  Loch  Drunkie,  and  under  a  bleak  sky  the  smooth 
surface  of  "  lovely  Loch  Achray  "  shone  like  a  liquid 
diamond.  An  occasional  grouse  rose  from  the  ferns 
and  swiftly  winged  its  way  to  cover.  A  few  cows,  wet 
but  indifferent,  composed  and  contented,  were  now  and 
then  visible,  grazing  in  that  desert ;  while  high  upon 
the  crags  appeared  many  sure-footed  sheep,  the  inevi- 
table inhabitants  of  those  solitudes.  So  onward,  breath- 
ing the  sweet  air  that  here  was  perfumed  by  miles  and 
miles  of  purple  heather,  I  descended  through  the  dense 
coppice  of  birch  and  pine  that  fringes  Loch  Katrine, 
and  all  in  a  moment  came  out  upon  the  levels  of  the 
lake.  It  was  a  long  sail  down  Loch  Katrine,  for  a  pil- 
grim drenched  and  chilled  by  the  steady  fall  of  a  pene- 
trating  rain  ;   but    Ellen's  isle  and  Fitz-James's  silver 


Northwest  Corner  of  Dunfermline  Abbey. 


304 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP.  XXII 


strand  brought  pleasant  memories  of  one  of  the  sweet- 
est of  stories,  and  all  the  lonesome  waters  seemed 
haunted  with  a  ghostly  pageant  of  the  radiant  standards 
of  Roderick  Dhu.  To-night  the  mists  are  on  the  moun- 
tains, and  upon  this  little  pine-clad  promontory  of 
Stronachlacher  the  darkness  comes  down  early  and 
seems  to  close  it  in  from  all  the  world.  The  waters  of 
Loch  Katrine  are  black  and  gloomy,  and  no  sound  is 
heard  but  the  rush  of  the  rain  and  the  sigh  of  the  pines. 
It  is  a  night  for  memory  and  for  thought,  and  to  them 
let  it  be  devoted. 

The  night-wind  that  sobs  in  the  trees  — 
Ah,  would  that  my  spirit  could  tell 
What  an  infinite  meaning  it  breathes, 
What  a  sorrow  and  longing  it  wakes! 


The  Nave — Looking   West  — 
Dunfermlhie  Abbey. 


CHAPTER    XXIII 


IMPERIAL    RUINS 


BAN,  September  4,  1890.  —  Going  west- 
ward from  Stronachlacher,  a  drive  of  sev- 
eral delicious  miles,  through  the  country 
of  Rob  Roy,  ends  at  Inversnaid  and  the 
shore  of  Loch  Lomond.  The  rain  had 
passed,  but  under  a  dusky,  lowering  sky 
the  dense  white  mists,  driven  by  a  fresh  morning  wind, 
were  drifting  along  the  heath-clad  hills,  like  a  pageant 
of  angels  trailing  robes  of  light.  Loch  Arklet  and  the 
little  shieHng  where  was  born  Helen,  the  wife  of  the 
Macgregor,  were  soon  passed,  —  a  peaceful  region  smil- 
ing in  the  vale ;  and  presently,  along  the  northern  bank 
of  the  Arklet,  whose  copious,  dark,  and  rapid  waters, 
broken  into  foam  upon  their  rocky  bed,  make  music 
all  the  way,  I  descended  that  precipitous  road  to  Loch 
Lomond  which,  through  many  a  devious  turning  and 
sudden  peril  in  the  fragrant  coppice,  reaches  safety  at 
last,  in  one  of  the  wildest  of  Highland  glens.  This 
drive  is  a  chief  delight  of  Highland  travel,  and  it  ap- 
pears to  be  one  that  "the  march  of  improvement,"  — 
meaning  the  extension  of  railways,  —  can  never  abolish; 

305 


XXIII  IMPERIAL   RUINS  307 

for,  besides  being  solitary  and  beautiful,  the  way  is  dififi- 
cult.  You  easily  divine  what  a  sanctuary  that  region 
must  have  been  to  the  bandit  chieftain,  when  no  road 
traversed  it  save  perhaps  a  sheep-track  or  a  path  for 
horses,  and  when  it  was  darkly  covered  with  the  thick 
pines  of  the  Caledonian  forest.  Scarce  a  living  creature 
was  anywhere  visible.  A  few  hardy  sheep,  indeed,  were 
grazing  on  the  mountain  slopes  ;  a  few  cattle  were  here 
and  there  couched  among  the  tall  ferns  ;  and  sometimes 
a  sable  company  of  rooks  flitted  by,  cawing  drearily 
overhead.  Once  I  saw  the  slow-stepping,  black-faced, 
puissant  Highland  bull,  with  his  menacing  head  and  his 
dark  air  of  suspended  hostility  and  inevitable  predomi- 
nance. All  the  cataracts  in  those  mountain  glens  were 
at  the  flood,  because  of  the  continuous  heavy  rains  of 
an  uncommonly  wet  season,  and  at  Inversnaid  the  mag- 
nificent waterfall,  — sister  to  Lodore  and  Aira  Force, — 
came  down  in  great  floods  of  black  and  silver,  and  with 
a  long  resounding  roar  that  seemed  to  shake  the  for- 
est. Soon  the  welcome  sun  began  to  pierce  the  mists ; 
patches  of  soft  blue  sky  became  visible  through  rifts  in 
the  gray ;  and  a  glorious  rainbow,  suddenly  cast  upon  a 
mountain-side  of  opposite  Inveruglas,  spanned  the  whole 
glittering  fairy  realm  with  its  great  arch  of  incommuni- 
cable splendour.  The  place  of  Rob  Roy's  cavern  was 
seen,  as  the  boat  glided  down  Loch  Lomond,  — a  snug 
nest  in  the  wooded  crag,  —  and,  after  all  too  brief  a  sail 
upon  those  placid  ebon  waters,  I  mounted  the  coach 
that  plies  between  Ardlui  and  Crianlarich.  Not  much 
time  will  now  elapse  before  this  coach  is  displaced,  — 
for  they  are  building  a  railroad  through  Glen  Falloch, 
which,    running   southerly   from    Crianlarich,  will    skirt 


3o8 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


the  western  shore  of  Loch  Lomond  and  reach  to  Bal- 
loch  and  Helensburgh,  and  thus  will  make  the  railway 
communication  complete,  continuous,  and  direct  be- 
tween Glasgow  and  Oban.  At  intervals  all  along  the 
glen  were  visible  the  railway  embankments,  the  piles 
of  "sleepers,"  the  heaps  of  steel  rails,  the  sheds  of  the 


Loch  Loiiw/ni. 

builders,  and  the  red  flag  of  the  dynamite  blast.  The 
new  road  will  be  a  popular  line  of  travel.  No  land 
"  that  the  eye  of  heaven  visits "  is  lovelier  than  this 
one.  But  it  may  perhaps  be  questioned  whether  the 
exquisite  loveliness  of  the  Scottish  Highlands  will  not 
become  vulgarised  by  over-easiness  of  accessibility.  Se- 
questration is  one  of  the  elements  of  the  beautiful,  and 
numbers  of  people  invariably  make  common  everything 


XXIII  IMPERIAL   RUINS  3O9 

upon  which  they  swarm.  But  nothing  can  debase  the 
unconquerable  majesty  of  those  encircling  mountains. 
I  saw  "the  skyish  head"  of  Ben  More,  at  one  angle, 
and  of  Ben  Lui  at  another,  and  the  lonely  slopes  of  the 
Grampian  hills  ;  and  over  the  surrounding  pasture-land, 
for  miles  and  miles  of  solitary  waste,  the  thick,  ripe 
heather  burnished  the  earth  with  brown  and  purple 
bloom  and  filled  the  air  with  dewy  fragrance. 

This  day  proved  capricious,  and  by  the  time  the  rail- 
way train  from  Crianlarich  had  sped  a  little  way  into 
Glen  Lochy  the  landscape  was  once  more  drenched  with 
wild  blasts  of  rain.  Loch-an-Beach,  always  gloomy, 
seemed  black  with  desolation.  Vast  mists  hunsf  over 
the  mountain-tops  and  partly  hid  them  ;  yet  down  their 
fern-clad  and  heather-mantled  sides  the  many  snowy 
rivulets,  seeming  motionless  in  the  impetuosity  of  their 
motion,  streamed  in  countless  ribands  of  silver  lace. 
The  mountain  ash,  which  is  in  perfect  bloom  in  Septem- 
ber, bearing  great  pendent  clusters  of  scarlet  berries, 
gave  a  frequent  touch  of  brilliant  colour  to  this  wild 
scenery.  A  numerous  herd  of  little  Highland  steers, 
mostly  brown  and  black,  swept  suddenly  into  the  pict- 
ure, as  the  express  flashed  along  Glen  Lochy,  and  at 
beautiful  Dalmally  the  sun  again  came  out,  with  sudden 
transient  gleams  of  intermittent  splendour ;  so  that  gray 
Kilchurn  and  the  jewelled  waters  of  sweet  Loch  Awe, 
and  even  the  cold  and  grim  grandeur  of  the  rugged  Pass 
of  Brander,  were  momentarily  clothed  with  tender, 
golden  haze.  It  was  afternoon  when  I  alighted  in  the 
seaside  haven  of  Oban  ;  yet  soon,  beneath  the  solemn 
light  of  the  waning  day,  I  once  more  stood  amid  the 
ruins  of  Dunstaffnage  Castle  and  looked  upon  one  of 


3IO  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

the  most  representative,  even  as  it  is  one  of  the  most 
picturesque,  rehcs  of  the  feudal  times  of  Scottish  his- 
tory. You  have  to  journey  about  three  miles  out  of  the 
town  in  order  to  reach  that  place,  which  is  upon  a 
promontory  where  Loch  Etive  joins  Loch  Linnhe.  The 
carriage  was  driven  to  it  through  a  shallow  water  and 
across  some  sands  which  soon  a  returning  tide  would 
deeply  submerge.  The  castle  is  so  placed  that,  when  it 
was  fortified,  it  must  have  been  well-nigh  impregnable. 
It  stands  upon  a  broad,  high,  massive,  precipitous  rock, 
looking  seaward  toward  Lismore  island.  Nothing  of 
that  old  fortress  now  remains  except  the  battlemented 
walls,  upon  the  top  of  which  there  is  a  walk,  and  por- 
tions of  its  towers,  of  which  originally  there  were  but 
three.  The  roof  and  the  floors  are  gone.  The  court- 
yard is  turfed,  and  over  the  surface  within  its  enclosure 
the  grass  grows  thick  and  green,  while  weeds  and  wild- 
flowers  fringe  its  slowly  mouldering  walls,  upon  which 
indeed  several  small  trees  have  rooted  themselves,  in 
crevices  stuffed  with  earth.  One  superb  ivy-tree,  of 
great  age  and  size,  covers  much  of  the  venerable  ruin, 
upon  its  inner  surface,  with  a  wild  luxuriance  of  brilliant 
foliage.  There  are  the  usual  indications  in  the  masonry, 
showing  how  the  area  of  this  castle  was  once  subdivided 
into  rooms  of  various  shapes  and  sizes,  some  of  them 
large,  in  which  were  ample  fireplaces  and  deeply  re- 
cessed embrasures,  and  no  doubt  arched  casements 
opening  on  the  inner  court.  Here  dwelt  the  early  kings 
of  Scotland.  Here  the  national  story  of  Scotland  be- 
gan. Here  for  a  long  time  was  treasured  the  Stone  of 
Destiny,  Lia  Fail,  before  it  was  taken  to  Scone  Abbey, 
thence  to  be  borne  to  London  by  Edward  the  First,  in 


xxiii  IMPERIAL   RUINS  3  I  I 

1296,  and  placed,  where  it  has  ever  since  remained,  and 
is  visible  now,  in  the  old  coronation  chair  in  the  chapel 
of  Edward  the  Confessor,  at  Westminster.  Here 
through  the  slow-moving"  centuries  many  a  story  of  love, 
ambition,  sorrow,  and  death  has  had  its  course  and  left 
its  record.  Here,  in  the  stormy,  romantic  period  that 
followed  1745,  was  imprisoned  for  awhile  the  beautiful, 
intrepid,  constant,  and  noble  Flora  Macdonald,  vv'ho  had 
saved  the  person  and  the  life  of  the  fugitive  Pretender, 
after  the  fatal  defeat  and  hideous  carnage  of  Culloden. 
What  pageants,  what  festivals,  what  glories,  and  what 
horrors  have  those  old  walls  beheld  !  Their  stones  seem 
agonised  with  ghastly  memories  and  weary  with  the 
intolerable  burden  of  hopeless  age ;  and  as  I  stood  and 
pondered  amid  their  gray  decrepitude  and  arid  desola- 
tion,—  while  the  light  grew  dim  and  the  evening  wind 
sighed  in  the  ivy  and  shook  the  tremulous  wall-flowers 
and  the  rustling  grass,  —  the  ancient,  worn-out  pile 
seemed  to  have  a  voice,  and  to  plead  for  the  merciful 
death  that  should  put  an  end  to  its  long,  consuming 
misery  and  dumb  decay.  Often  before,  when  standing 
along  among  ruins,  have  I  felt  this  spirit  of  supplication, 
and  seen  this  strange,  beseechful  look,  in  the  silent, 
patient  stones  :  never  before  had  it  appealed  to  my  heart 
with  such  eloquence  and  such  pathos.  Truly  nature 
passes  through  all  the  experience  and  all  the  moods  of 
man,  even  as  man  passes  through  all  the  experience  and 
all  the  moods  of  nature. 

On  the  western  side  of  the  courtyard  of  Dunstaffnage 
stands  a  small  stone  building,  accessible  by  a  low  flight 
of  steps,  which  bears  upon  its  front  the  sculptured  date 
1725,  intertwined  with  the  letters  AE.  C.  and  LC,  and 


/ 


5   1 


■r-:3 


;\  'l 


II.; 


ivvSiW'^  -=.51.:', 


■/I 


if 


-v^-l^\X^  i 


■3^ 


S 
Q 


CHAP.  XXIII  IMPERIAL   RUINS  3 1 3 

the  words  Laus  Deo.  This  was  the  residence  of  the 
ancient  family  of  Dunstaffnage,  prior  to  18 10.  From 
the  battlements  I  had  a  wonderful  view  of  adjacent 
lakes  and  engirdling  mountains, — the  jewels  and  their 
giant  guardians  of  the  lonely  land  of  Lorn, — and  saw 
the  red  sun  go  down  over  a  great  inland  sea  of  purple 
heather  and  upon  the  wide  waste  of  the  desolate  ocean. 
These  and  such  as  these  are  the  scenes  that  make  this 
country  distinctive,  and  that  have  stamped  their  im- 
press of  stately  thought  and  romantic  sentiment  upon 
its  people.  Amid  such  scenes  the  Scottish  national 
character  has  been  developed,  and  under  their  influence 
have  naturally  been  created  the  exquisite  poetry,  the 
enchanting  music,  the  noble  art  and  architecture,  and 
the  austere  civilisation  of  imperial  Scotland. 

After  dark  the  rain  again  came  on,  and  all  night  long, 
through  light  and  troubled  slumber,  I  heard  it  beating 
on  the  window-panes.  The  morning  dawned  in  gloom 
and  drizzle,  and  there  was  no  prophetic  voice  to  speak 
a  word  of  cheer.  One  of  the  expeditions  that  may  be 
made  from  Oban  comprises  a  visit  to  Fingal's  Cave, 
on  the  island  of  Staffa,  and  to  the  ruined  cathedral 
on  Saint  Columba's  island  of  lona,  and,  incidentally, 
a  voyage  around  the  great  island  of  Mull.  It  is  the 
most  beautiful,  romantic,  diversified,  and  impressive  sail 
that  can  be  made  in  these  waters.  The  expeditious  itin- 
erant in  Scotland  waits  not  upon  the  weather,  and  at  an 
early  hour  this  day  I  was  speeding  out  of  Oban,  with  the 
course  set  for  Lismore  Lig-ht  and  the  Sound  of  Mull.^ 


'&' 


1  Chapters  on  lona,  Staffa,  Glencoe,  and  other  beauties  of  Scotland 
may  be  found  in  my  books,  which  are  companions  to  this  one,  called  Old 
Shrines  and  Ivy  and  Brown  Heath  and  Blue  Bells. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 


THE    LAND    OF    MARMION 


ERWICK-UPON-TWEED,  September 
8,  1890.  —  It  had  long  been  my  wish  to 
see  something  of  royal  Berwick,  and  our 
acquaintance  has  at  length  begun.  This 
is  a  town  of  sombre  gray  houses  capped 
with  red  roofs  ;  of  elaborate,  old-fashioned,  disused  for- 
tifications ;  of  dismantled  military  walls  ;  of  noble  stone 
bridges  and  stalwart  piers  ;  of  breezy  battlement  walks, 
fine  sea-views,  spacious  beaches,  castellated  remains, 
steep  streets,  broad  squares,  narrow,  winding  ways, 
many  churches,  quaint  customs,  and  ancient  memories. 
The  present,  indeed,  has  marred  the  past  in  this  old 
town,  dissipating  the  element  of  romance  and  putting 
no  adequate  substitute  in  its  place.  Yet  the  element  of 
romance  is  here,  for  such  observers  as  can  look  on  Ber- 
wick through  the  eyes  of  the  imagination  ;  and  even 
those  who  can  imagine  nothing  must  at  least  perceive 
that  its  aspect  is  regal.  Viewed,  as  I  had  often  viewed 
it,  from  the  great  Border  bridge  between   England  and 

314 


CHAP.  XXIV  THE   LAND   OF   MARMION  3  j  5 

Scotland,  it  rises  on  its  graceful  promontory, — bathed 
in  sunshine  and  darkly  bright  amid  the  sparkling  silver 
of  the  sea,  —  a  veritable  ocean  queen.  To-day  I  have 
w^alked  upon  its  walls,  threaded  its  principal  streets, 
crossed  its  ancient  bridge,  explored  its  suburbs,  entered 
its  municipal  hall,  visited  its  parish  church,  and  taken 
long  drives  through  the  country  that  encircles  it  ;  and 
now  at  midnight,  sitting  in  a  lonely  chamber  of  the 
King's  Arms  and  musing  upon  the  past,  I  hear  not 
simply  the  roll  of  a  carriage  wheel  or  the  footfall  of  a 
late  traveller  dying  away  in  the  distance,  but  the  music 
with  which  warriors  proclaimed  their  victories  and  kings 
and  queens  kept  festival  and  state.  This  has  been  a  pen- 
sive day,  for  in  its  course  I  have  said  farewell  to  many 
lovely  and  beloved  scenes.  Edinburgh  was  never  more 
beautiful  than  when  she  faded  in  the  yellow  mist  of  this 
autumnal  morning.  On  Preston  battlefield  the  golden 
harvest  stood  in  sheaves,  and  the  meadows  glimmered 
green  in  the  soft  sunshine,  while  over  them  the  white 
clouds  drifted  and  the  peaceful  rooks  made  wing  in 
happy  indolence  and  peace.  Soon  the  ruined  church  of 
Seton  came  into  view,  with  its  singular  stunted  tower 
and  its  venerable  gray  walls  couched  deep  in  trees,  and 
around  it  the  cultivated,  many-coloured  fields  and  the 
breezy,  emerald  pastures  stretching  away  to  the  verge 
of  the  sea.  A  glimpse,  and  it  is  gone.  But  one  sweet 
picture  no  sooner  vanishes  than  its  place  is  filled  with 
another.  Yonder,  on  the  hillside,  is  the  manor-house, 
with  stately  battlement  and  tower,  its  antique  aspect 
softened  by  great  masses  of  clinging  ivy.  Here,  nes- 
tled in  the  sunny  valley,  are  the  little  stone  cottages, 


3i6 


GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD 


CHAP. 


roofed  with  red  tiles  and  bright  with  the  adornment  of 
arbutus  and  hollyhock.  All  around  are  harvest-fields 
and  market-gardens,  —  the  abundant  dark  green  of 
potato-patches  being  gorgeously  lit  with  the  inter- 
mingled  lustre  of    millions  of    wild-flowers,  white  and 


Tantallon  Castle. 


gold,  over  which  drift  many  flights  of  doves.  Some- 
times upon  the  yellow  level  of  the  hayfields  a  sudden 
wave  of  brilliant  poppies  seems  to  break,  —  dashing 
itself  into  scarlet  foam.     Timid,  startled  sheep  scurry 


XXIV  THE   LAND   OF   MARMION  317 

away  into  their  pastures,  as  the  swift  train  flashes  by 
them.  A  woman  standing  at  her  cottage  door  looks 
at  it  with  curious  yet  regardless  gaze.  Farms  teeming 
with  plenty  are  swiftly  traversed,  their  many  circular, 
cone-topped  hayricks  standing  like  towers  of  amber. 
Tall,  smoking  chimneys  in  the  factory  villages  flit  by 
and  disappear.  Everywhere  are  signs  of  industry  and 
thrift,  and  everywhere  also  are  denotements  of  the  senti- 
ment and  taste  that  are  spontaneous  in  the  nature  of 
this  people.  Tantallon  lies  in  the  near  distance,  and 
speeding  toward  ancient  Dunbar  I  dream  once  more  the 
dreams  of  boyhood,  and  can  hear  the  trumpets,  and  see 
the  pennons,  and  catch  again  the  silver  gleam  of  the 
spears  of  Marmion.  Dunbar  is  left  behind,  and  with  it 
the  sad  memory  of  Mary  Stuart,  infatuated  with  bar- 
baric Bothwell,  and  whirled  away  to  shipwreck  and 
ruin, — as  so  many  great  natures  have  been  before 
and  will  be  again,  —  upon  the  black  reefs  of  human 
passion.  The  heedless  train  is  skirting  the  hills  of 
Lammermoor  now,  and  speeding  through  plains  of  a 
fertile  verdure- that  is  brilliant  and  beautiful  down  to  the 
margin  of  the  ocean.  Close  by  Cockburnspath  is  the 
long,  lonely,  melancholy  beach  that  well  may  have  been 
in  Scott's  remembrance  when  he  fashioned  that  weird 
and  tragic  close  of  the  most  poetical  and  pathetic  of  his 
novels,  while,  near  at  hand,  on  its  desolate  headland, 
the  grim  ruin  of  Fast  Castle, — which  is  deemed  the 
original  of  his  Wolf's  Crag,  —  frowns  darkly  on  the 
white  breakers  at  its  surge-beaten  base.  Edgar  of 
Ravenswood  is  no  longer  an  image  of  fiction,  when  you 
look  upon  that  scene  of  gloomy  grandeur  and  mystery. 
But  do  not  look  upon  it  too  closely  nor  too  long,  — for 


3I&  GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD  chap. 

of  all  scenes  that  are  conceived  as  distinctly  weird  it 
may  truly  be  said  that  they  are  more  impressive  in  the 
imagination  than  in  the  actual  prospect.  This  coast  is 
full  of  dark  ravines,  stretching  seaward  and  thickly 
shrouded  with  trees,  but  in  them  now  and  then  a 
glimpse  is  caught  of  a  snugly  sheltered  house,  over- 
grown with  flowers,  securely  protected  from  every 
blast  of  storm.  The  rest  is  open  land,  which  many 
dark  stone  walls  partition,  and  many  hawthorn  hedges, 
and  many  little  white  roads,  winding  away  toward  the 
shore  :  for  this  is  Scottish  sea-side  pageantry,  and  the 
sunlit  ocean  makes  a  silver  setting  for  the  jewelled 
landscape,  all  the  way  to  Berwick. 

The  profit  of  walking  in  the  footsteps  of  the  past 
is  that  you  learn  the  value  of  the  privilege  of  life 
in  the  present.  The  men  and  women  of  the  past 
had  their  opportunity  and  each  improved  it  after  his 
kind.  These  are  the  same  plains  in  which  Wallace  and 
Bruce  fought  for  the  honour,  and  established  the  suprem- 
acy, of  the  kingdom  of  Scotland.  The  same  sun  gilds 
these  plains  to-day,  the  same  sweet  wind  blows  over 
them,  and  the  same  sombre,  majestic  ocean  breaks  in 
solemn  murmurs  on  their  shore.  "Hodie  mihi,  eras 
tibi," — as  it  was  written  on  the  altar  skulls  in  the 
ancient  churches.  Yesterday  belonged  to  them  ;  to-day 
belongs  to  us  ;  and  well  will  it  be  for  us  if  we  improve 
it.  In  such  an  historic  town  as  Berwick  the  lesson  is 
brought  home  to  a  thoughtful  mind  with  convincing 
force  and  significance.  So  much  has  happened  here,  — 
and  every  actor  in  the  great  drama  is  long  since  dead 
and  gone  !  Hither  came  King  John,  and  slaughtered 
the  people  as  if  they  were  sheep,  and  burnt  the  city,  — 


XXIV  THE   LAND   OF   MARMION  319 

himself  applying  the  torch  to  the  house  in  which  he  had 
slept.  Hither  came  Edward  the  P'irst,  and  mercilessly 
butchered  the  inhabitants,  men,  women,  and  children, 
violating  even  the  sanctuary  of  the  churches.  Here,  in 
his  victorious  days,  Sir  William  Wallace  reigned  and 
prospered  ;  and  here,  when  Menteith's  treachery  had 
wrought  his  ruin,  a  fragment  of  his  mutilated  body  was 
long  displayed  upon  the  bridge.  Here,  in  the  castle,  of 
which  only  a  few  fragments  now  remain  (these  being 
adjacent  to  the  North  British  railway  station),  Edward 
the  First  caused  to  be  confined  in  a  wooden  cajre  that 
intrepid  Countess  of  Buchan  who  had  crowned  Robert 
Bruce,  at  Scone.  Hither  came  Edward  the  Third,  after 
the  battle  of  Halidon  Hill,  which  lies  close  by  this  place, 
had  finally  established  the  English  power  in  Scotland. 
All  the  princes  that  fought  in  the  wars  of  the  Roses 
have  been  in  Berwick  and  have  wrangled  over  the  pos- 
session of  it.  Richard  the  Third  doomed  it  to  isolation. 
Henry  the  Seventh  declared  it  a  neutral  state.  By 
Elizabeth  it  was  fortified,  —  in  that  wise  sovereign's 
resolute  and  vigorous  resistance  to  the  schemes  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  church  for  the  dominance  of  her  kins:- 
dom.  John  Knox  preached  here,  in  a  church  on  Hide 
Hill,  before  he  went  to  Edinburgh  to  shake  the  throne 
with  his  tremendous  eloquence.  The  picturesque,  un- 
happy James  the  Fourth  went  from  this  place  to  Ford 
Castle  and  Lady  Heron,  and  thence  to  his  death,  at 
Flodden  Field.  Here  it  was  that  Sir  John  Cope  first 
paused  in  his  fugitive  ride  from  the  fatal  field  of  Pres- 
ton, and  here  he  was  greeted  as  affording  the  only 
instance  in  which  the  first  news  of  a  defeat  had  been 
brought  by  the  vanquished  General  himself.    And  within 


320  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

sight  of  Berwick  ramparts  are  those  perilous  Fame 
islands,  where,  at  the  wreck  of  the  steamer  Forfarshire, 
in  1838,  the  heroism  of  a  woman  wrote  upon  the  historic 
page  of  her  country,  in  letters  of  imperishable  glory,  the 
name  of  Grace  Darling.  (There  is  a  monument  to 
her  memory,  in  Bamborough  churchyard.)  Imagination, 
however,  has  done  for  this  region  what  history  could 
never  do.  Each  foot  of  this  ground  was  known  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  and  for  every  lover  of  that  great  author 
each  foot  of  it  is  hallowed.  It  is  the  Border  Land,  — 
the  land  of  chivalry  and  song,  the  land  that  he  has  en- 
deared to  all  the  world,  —  and  you  come  to  it  mainly  for 

his  sake. 

"  Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 
And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone." 

The  village  of  Norham  lies  a  few  miles  west  of  Ber- 
wick, upon  the  south  bank  of  the  Tweed,  —  a  group  of 
cottages  clustered  around  a  single  long  street.  The 
buildings  are  low  and  are  mostly  roofed  with  dark  slate 
or  red  tiles.  Some  of  them  are  thatched,  and  grass 
and  flowers  grow  wild  upon  the  thatch.  At  one  end 
of  the  main  highway  is  a  market-cross,  near  to  which 
is  a  little  inn.  Beyond  that  and  nearer  to  the  Tweed, 
which  flows  close  beside  the  place,  is  a  church  of  great 
antiquity,  set  toward  the  western  end  of  a  long  and 
ample  churchyard,  in  which  many  graves  are  marked 
with  tall,  thick,  perpendicular  slabs,  many  v/ith  dark, 
oblong  tombs,  tumbling  to  ruin,  and  many  with  short, 
stunted  monuments.  The  church  tower  is  low,  square, 
and  of  enormous  strength.  Upon  the  south  side  of  the 
chancel  are  five  windows,  beautifully  arched,  —  the  dog- 


XXIV 


THE   LAND   OF   MARMION 


321 


toothed  casements  being  uncommonly  complete  speci- 
mens of  that  ancient  architectural  device.  This  church 
has  been  restored;  the  south  aisle  in  1846,  by  I. 
Bononi ;  the  north  aisle  in  1852,  by  E.  Gray.  The 
western  end  of  the  churchyard  is  thickly  masked  in 


^^iL       <_ 


Norkam   Castle — m  the  time  of  Alarm  i 071. 


great  trees,  and  looking  directly  east  from  this  point 
your  gaze  falls  upon  all  that  is  left  of  the  stately  Castle 
of  Norham,  formerly  called  Ublanford,  —  built  by  Flam- 
berg,  Bishop  of  Durham,  in  1 121,  and  restored  by  Hugh 
Pudsey,  another  Prince  of  that  See,  in  1164.  It  must 
once  have  been  a  place  of  tremendous  fortitude  and  of 
great  extent.     Now  it  is  wide  open  to  the  sky,  and  noth- 


322  GRAY   DAYS   AND   GOLD  chap. 

ing  of  it  remains  but  roofless  walls  and  crumbling  arches, 
on  which  the  grass  is  growing  and  the  pendent  bluebells 
tremble  in  the  breeze.  Looking  through  the  embrasures 
of  the  east  wall  you  see  the  tops  of  large  trees  that  are 
rooted  in  the  vast  trench  below,  where  once  were  the 
dark  waters  of  the  moat.  All  the  courtyards  are  cov- 
ered now  with  sod,  and  quiet  sheep  nibble  and  lazy 
cattle  couch  where  once  the  royal  banners  floated  and 
plumed  and  belted  knights  stood  round  their  king.  It 
was  a  day  of  uncommon  beauty,  —  golden  with  sunshine 
and  fresh  with  a  perfumed  air ;  and  nothing  was  want- 
ing to  the  perfection  of  solitude.  Near  at  hand  a  thin 
stream  of  pale  blue  smoke  curled  upward  from  a  cottage 
chimney.  At  some  distance  the  sweet  voices  of  playing 
children  mingled  with  the  chirp  of  small  birds  and  the 
occasional  cawing  of  the  rook.  The  long  grasses  that 
grow  upon  the  ruin  moved  faintly,  but  made  no  sound. 
A  few  doves  were  seen,  gliding  in  and  out  of  crevices 
in  the  mouldering  turret.  And  over  all,  and  calmly  and 
coldly  speaking  the  survival  of  nature  when  the  grandest 
works  of  man  are  dust,  sounded  the  rustle  of  many 
branches  in  the  heedless  wind. 

The  day  was  setting  over  Norham  as  I  drove  away, 
—  the  red  sun  slowly  obscured  in  a  great  bank  of  slate- 
coloured  cloud,  —  but  to  the  last  I  bent  my  gaze  upon 
it,  and  that  picture  of  ruined  magnificence  can  never 
fade  out  of  my  mind.  The  road  eastward  toward  Ber- 
wick is  a  green  lane,  running  between  harvest-fields, 
which  now  were  thickly  piled  with  golden  sheaves,  while 
over  them  swept  great  flocks  of  sable  rooks.  There  are 
but  few  trees  in  that  landscape,  —  scattered  groups  of 
the  ash  and  the  plane,  —  to  break  the  prospect.     For 


XXIV  THE   LAND   OF   MARMION  323 

a  long  time  the  stately  ruin  remained  in  view,  —  its 
huge  bulk  and  serrated  outline,  relieved  against  the  red 
and  gold  of  sunset,  taking  on  the  perfect  semblance  of 
a  colossal  cathedral,  like  that  of  lona,  with  vast  square 
tower,  and  chancel,  and  nave :  only,  because  of  its  jag- 
ged lines,  it  seems  in  this  prospect  as  if  shaken  by  a 
convulsion  of  nature  and  tottering  to  its  momentary  fall. 
Never  was  illusion  more  perfect.  Yet  as  the  vision 
faded  I  could  remember  only  the  illusion  that  will  never 
fade, — the  illusion  that  a  magical  poetic  genius  has 
cast  over  those  crumbling  battlements,  rebuilding  the 
shattered  towers,  and  pouring  through  their  ancient 
halls  the  glowing  tide  of  life  and  love,  of  power  and 
pageant,  of  beauty,  light,  and  song. 


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